Random Recollections

ired In September of 1928, after my three-month graduation leave and a short sojourn at Fort Bliss, Texas, I was assigned to E Troop of the 1st Cavalry at Camp Marfa, Texas. My troop commander then, and for the next four years, was Captain Donald R. Dunkle. Unfortunately, like so many of my classmates, I at first looked down my nose at Captain Dunkle, for he was commissioned from the “90-day wonders” of World War I. In retrospect, I can see why West Pointers were often considered prissy prigs by the older WWI veterans. Captain Dunkle was a rotund, jolly, easygoing person, who loved to crack jokes, who was always a hail-fellow well-met, and who had a complete disregard for regulations. Naturally, he and I were like oil and water. He didn’t care much for me, and I cared less for him. So, for the first few months, I rode at the tail of the column and ate dust. There was no other officer in the troop. In early January of 1929, rumblings from Mexico caused the colonel and the staff to dust off our border defense plans and hold Officers’ Call. A fellow named Esco-bar was raising hell in Mexico and about to start one of their perennial revolutions. The colonel ordered squadron and troop commanders to get out of barracks, get on the trail, and get down to the border in proper sectors to see what was what. I’ll digress from my theme a moment and point out that, in those days, cavalry traveled rather light (except for Captain Dunkle). Each man had two saddlebags, a pommel roll and a cantle roll in which were carried all the necessities of life, except food. Each man even had a feed of grain and a pair of spare horseshoes aboard. The kitchen, and at least one day’s rations, were carried on two pack horses. The troop baggage, forage for two days, and ammunition were carried on two escort wagons drawn by four mules each. If the march was more than four days, a portion of the pack train loaded with forage also went along. But Captain Dunkle - and I emphasize this only because it is a prelude to a subsequent yarn - had a private 8x8 wall tent, a folding cot, two gasoline lanterns, a mattress, a folding table, two folding chairs, a portable bar, four blankets, a folding two-holer, and many other things too numerous to mention. Needless to say, more than the normal number of pack animals and wagons accompanied E Troop marches. Troop E loaded up and marched for Pinto Canyon before daylight one day in early January, 1929. (I learned later that we left before daylight so the colonel could not see all our excess baggage.) The weather was balmy for West Texas at 5,000 feet, and we arrived in Pinto Canyon, a distance of 30-35 miles, before noon. We groomed, watered, and fed the animals and soon had our favorite noontime meal on the march - S. O. S. After dinner, I had planned to explore Pinto Canyon, but Captain Dunkle had other plans. He was a friend of Jim Watts, who owned the bottom of Pinto Canyon, and Mr. Watts had given the captain permission to let the troop hunt. The captain said, “Sergeant Weaver, bring out the ammo.” And, lo and behold, Sergeant Weaver had a whole case of 30-06 ball ammo, which was not part of the sealed and to-be-accounted-for basic load. Then the captain called for volunteers to go deer hunting. About three-fourths of the troop responded. Each trooper was given two clips of ammo, and the captain said, “You men may hunt both sides of the canyon all the way to the top and east as far as the Watts ranch house.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “You, Myers, go along and maintain order.” If you can imagine the pandemonium which ensued, you will understand why I say the situation was hairy. There were about 60 men, with M1903 Springfields, 19 with 10 rounds each, men who mostly knew how to shoot, but knew nothing of hunting. Needless to say, the valley rang with fusil-lades, as any animal which moved became a target. As hard as it is to believe, we all survived, and we ate venison and goat meat that night. The captain was very jolly; he invited me to sleep in his tent, and the thaw in our relations started. I rode with him at the head of the column the next day as we marched to Candelaria, another 35 miles. Candelaria wasn’t much of a town. At that time, it consisted of a store, post office, a cotton gin, and the remains of a crude factory in which wax was once rendered from the native Candelia plant, which grows profusely in the valley. The whole shebang was owned by one Dawkins Kilpatrick, a real character. I soon found that he, too, was a very close friend of Captain Dunkle. After stables and dinner, the captain told Lieutenant Myers and the First Sergeant to let the men and horses romp in the river. They did, and all hands had a great time. Then the captain sprang the good news which, in truth, he had been planning for weeks: “We’ll stay here two days and all men can go across the river to San Antonio del Bravo, fifty percent at a time.” I learned later that the men knew of these stops and had been saving as much as possible from their $21 per month pay. The first contingent left before dark, and we all heard what a good time they had on 40-cents-per-bottle of Mescal and Sotol when they came staggering in at 2 A. M. The captain and I had enjoyed an outstanding game dinner with Dawkins, a dinner greatly complement-commoaity in D a n Anronio aei Bravo, and he soon traded them for two bottles of tequila which he consumed before he crawled into his pup tent. During the night, alight but cold rain had started to fall, and the wind switched to the north. The older hands, like the captain, knew that a blue norther was coming, and a blue norther in the high plateau in January is brutal. So the captain ordered reveille at 0400 and to march at 0530. In the morning when the roll was called, Ramirez was missing. A quick check of his pup tent revealed him dead to the world. Neither the captain, beating on his feet with a riding crop, nor the bugler, blowing his loudest in his ear, could rouse him. So the first sergeant had Ramirez’s tent struck, his roll made, and his saddle loaded, while leavinghim in his long johns and 20 shirt to lie on the rocks in the rain. We fed and watered the horses and ate breakfast. Breakfast that day was less than gourmet: warmed-over blackcoffee, S. O. S. mixed with rain water, and hardtack. When we saddled up and prepared to move out, Ramirez was still out cold, so Platoon Sergeant Knapp had Ramirez’s horse saddled and had Ramirez hoisted up on his saddle in his shirt, drawers, and campaign hat. He fell off. So, Captain Dunkle ordered, “Tie the _----- on!” We moved out and proceeded the 10 or 12 miles to the Brite Rim at a rather increased rate of march because we wanted to get up the rim before the norther hit full blast. Upon arrival at the base of the rim, we halted for a brief rest before leading the horses up. Ramirez was showing blood on the inside of his legs, and the rope was chafing his wrists, so he was released. We were pleased to see that he could stand up - almost alone. The reason that we had to lead up the rim was that the trail was so steep, taking many switchbacks as it zig-zagged up the face of the cliff some 2,000 to 2,500 feet in less than three miles of road. The horses, loaded as they were, could not make it up the trail with men on their backs. So we started up, with Ramirez being helped, since he was in his socks and his feet were tender. We halted “to blow” (give the men and horses a rest) about one-third of the way up, and at that time Ramirez’s feet were pretty bloody, so he put on his extra pair of socks and a friend loaned Ramirez another pair. This padding helped to protect his feet. When we stopped to blow about two-thirds of the way up, he was alert but hurting plenty. Then the rain changed to sleet. Since we were equipped with the G- 1 raincoats of that era - coats noted for serving as a funnel to direct all drippings from the campaign hat down the back of the neck - we were all soon drenched, icing up, and miserable. The last one-third of that climb was rugged. But we made it to the top with alacrity, there to be met with a combination of sleet, snow and 40- mph winds, together with about 30- degree temperatures. The horses with their winter coats suffered less than the men. However, it was only 8 or 9 miles to the Brite ranch house, so all hands perked up, and we arrived there with no dropouts, man or beast, at about noon. We were met by Oscar Wells, the foreman, who welcomed us with warmth and told us to use any facility in the ranch to protect ourselves from the storm. It is quite possible that the fact that Captain Dunkle was the son-in-law of Mr. Brite had some bearing on the warmth of our welcome. We put the horses in corrals with high board fences which broke the wind, so the horses were well-cared for. We put the saddle gear and weapons in the hay barn where the men could work on them to prevent rust and deterioration. The men were spread out in the hay, in stalls, in the store, on the counters - everywhere a place big enough could be found. The kitchen was set up in the wagon shed and the captain’s tent pitched as near the fire as it could be without fear of burning. We had a hot meal and a good, comfortable night, and Ramirez was acting like a real good soldier. During the afternoon, the captain and I had quite a discussion about whether to stay over at the ranch until the storm had ended. (By now he was calling me Sam. I had passed his test.) Usually, these blue northers lasted, at most, three days. But the decision was not ours. Just before dark, the wagons and the pack mules pulled in and a quick inventory revealed that we had but two meals of food, no hay, and only two feeds of grain left. He decided that we would march at 0800 the next day and then went to the house to see if Oscar could rustle up some clothes for Ramirez to wear. He returned in a short while with a pair of jeans and some old cowboy boots. This addition to his wardrobe had a very salutary effect on our hung over boxer. The next morning we woke up to about five inches of snow on the ground, but the wind had died down. Hence, the 30 miles into Camp Marfa were relatively easy. More amazing was the fact that not one man or animal had even a cold. I am very happy to report that from that day on, Ramirez lost his cockiness, worked like a dog, and became one of our best troopers. When I left for Fort Riley three years and five months later, Corporal Ramirez helped see me off. Now, I suppose there ought to be a moral to this tale. Sure there is. Don’t ever underestimate a cherubic, fat, Pennsylvania Dutch cap-

SAMUEL L. MYERS, retired in 1963 after serving as deputy CG, Eighth Army. He served as a cavalry officer in Texas and Kansas after commissioning from West Point in 1928, and with the 26th Cavalry in the Philippines in the late 1930s. During his long and distinguished career, he also commanded the Armor Training Center at Fort Knox. 21