THE MILITARY OPERATOR--A FAKE REPORT THAT NEARLY CAUSED TROUBLE
The railroad and commercial telegraphers are well known to the general
public, because they are thrown daily in contact with them, but there is
still another class in the profession, which, while not being so well
known are, in their way, just as important in their acts and deeds. I
refer to the military telegrapher. His work does not often carry him
within the environments of civilization; his instruments are not of the
beautiful Bunnell pattern, placed on polished glass partitioned tables;
his task is a very hard one and yet he does it without a grumble. His
sphere of duty is out at the extreme edge of advancing civilization. You
will find him along the Rio Grande frontier; out on the sun-baked
deserts of New Mexico and Arizona; up in the Bad Lands of Montana, and
the snow-capped mountains of the Rockies. A few of them you will find in
nice offices at some department headquarters or in the war office in
Washington, but such places are generally given to men who have grown
old and gray in the service. His office? Any old place he can plant his
instruments, many times a tent with a cracker box for a table; a chair
would be an unheard-of luxury. His pay? Thirteen big round American
dollars per month. His rank and title? Hold your breath while I tell
you. Private, United States Army. Great, isn't it? Many times a detail
to one of the frontier points means farewell to your friends as long as
the tour lasts.
When I left the railroad business I journeyed out westward to Fort
Hayes, Kansas, and held up my right hand and swore all manner of oaths
to support the Constitution of the United States; obey the orders of the
President of the United States and all superior officers; to accept the
pay and allowances as made by a generous (God save the word) Congress
for the period of five years. Thus did I become a soldier and a "dough
boy" because I went to the infantry arm of the service. I've stuck to
the business ever since.
I supposed when I went into the army that my connection with wires and
telegraph instruments was entirely finished. I had worked at the
business long and faithfully and was in a state of mind that I thought I
had had enough. That's very good in theory, but powerful poor in
practice, because I hadn't been soldiering a month before a feeling of
homesickness for my old love came over me; in fact to this day I never
see a railroad but what I want to go up in the despatcher's office and
sit down and take a "trick." But there were commissions to be had from
the ranks of the army and I wanted one, so I hung on and did my duty as
best I could.
The stay at Fort Hayes was a very peaceful and serene one; I did no
telegraphing there for a year, and then we were ordered to Fort Clark,
Texas. When I quit the commercial business I had almost taken an oath
never to go back to Texas, but I couldn't help it in this case.
Fort Clark is one hundred and thirty miles due west of dear old San
Antonio, and situated nine miles from the railroad. When my company
arrived, there was no telegraphic communication with the outside world
and all telegrams had to be sent by courier to Spofford Junction, for
transmission. After having been stationed there for about eight months I
was sent for by the commanding officer and told to take charge of a
party and build a telegraph line over to the railroad. The poles had
been set by a detachment of the 3rd Cavalry and in five days' time I had
strung the wire. Being the only operator in the post I was placed in
charge of the office and relieved from all duty. It was a perfect snap;
no drills, no guards, no parades, nothing but just work the wire and
plenty of time to devote to my studies.
In December, 1890, the Sioux Indians again broke loose from their
reservations at Pine Ridge and all of the available men of the pitifully
small, but gallant, United States army were hurriedly rushed northwards
to give them a smash that would be lasting and convincing. There was the
7th Cavalry, Custer's old command, the 6th and 9th Cavalry, the 10th,
2nd, and 17th Infantry, the late lamented and gallant Capron's flying
battery of artillery, besides others--General Miles personally assumed
command, and the campaign was short, sharp, brilliant and decisive. The
Indians were lambasted into a semblance of order, and that
personification of deviltry, Sitting Bull, given his transportation to
the happy hunting grounds, but not before a score or more of brave
officers and men had passes to their long reckoning. Captain George
Wallace, of the 7th Cavalry; Lieutenant Mann, of the same regiment, and
Lieutenant Ned Casey, of the 22nd Infantry, left places in the ranks of
the officers that were hard to fill.
My regiment, the 18th Infantry, was too far away to go, and besides,
the Rio Grande frontier, with Señor Garza and his band of cutthroats
prowling around loose, could not be left unprotected. There would be too
big a howl from the Texans if that occurred.
During all these trying times my telegraph office was naturally the
center of interest, and I had made an arrangement with the chief
operator at San Antonio to send me bulletins of any important news. I
always made two copies, posting one on the bulletin board in front of my
office, and delivering the other to the colonel in person.
Soldiers are very loquacious as a rule and give them a thread upon which
to hang an argument, and in a minute a free silver, demo-popocrat
convention would sound tame in comparison. Go into a squad-room at any
time the men are off duty, and you can have a discussion on almost any
old subject from the result of the coming prize fight to the deepest
question of the bible and theology. Many times the argument will become
so warm between Privates "Hicky" Flynn and "Pie Faced" Sullivan that
theology will be settled _a la_ Queensbury out behind the wash-house.
Among soldiers this argumentative spirit is called "chewing the rag."
One morning shortly after Wounded Knee with its direful results had
been fought, I thought it would be a great joke to post a startling
bulletin, just to start the men's tongues a-wagging.
So I wrote the following:
"Bulletin
"San Antonio, Texas, 12 | 26, 1890.
"Reported that the 6th and 9th Cavalry were ambuscaded yesterday by
Sioux Indians under Crazy Horse, and completely wiped out of
existence. Custer's Little Big Horn massacre outdone. Not a man
escaped."
I chuckled with fiendish glee as I posted this on the bulletin board and
then started for breakfast. I thought some soldier would read it, tell
it to the men of his company, and in that way the fun would commence. My
scheme worked to perfection, because some of the men of G Company, (mine
was D) had seen me stick it up and had come post haste to read. I
started the ball rolling in my own company and in about a minute there
were fifty men around me all jabbering like magpies as to the result of
this awful massacre. Of course, the regiment would be hurried north
forthwith--no other regiment could do the work of annihilation so well
as the 18th. Oh! no. Of course not!
Said my erstwhile friend and bunkie "Hickey" Flynn: "Av coorse, Moiles
will be after sendin' a message to Lazelle to bring the Ateenth fut up
at once, and thin the smashin' we will be after givin' them rid divils
will make a wake look sick."
"Aw cum off, Hickey," said Sullivan, "phat the divil does yez know av
foightin' injuns? Phat were ye over in the auld sod? Nathin' but a turf
digger. Phat were ye here before ye 'listed? Dom ye, I think ye belong
to the Clan na Gael and helped to murther poor Doc Cronin, bad cess to
ye."
A display of authority on the part of the top sergeant prevented a clash
and the jaw-breaking contest proceeded. By this time the news had spread
and the entire garrison were talking. Just as I was about to tell them
that it was a fake pure and simple, I happened to glance towards my
office, and Holy Smoke! there was my captain standing on his tiptoes (he
was only five feet four) reading that confounded bulletin. I hadn't
counted on any of the officers reading it. Generally they didn't get up
until eight o'clock and by that time I would have destroyed the fake
report.
The officers' club was in the same building as my office and the captain
had come down early, evidently to get a--to read the morning paper
(_which came at 4 P. M._) and his eye lighted on my bulletin. I saw him
read it carefully, and then reaching up he tore it from the board and as
quick as his little legs would carry him, he made a bee line for the
commanding officer's quarters. I knew full well how the colonel would
regard that bulletin when he found out it was a fake. I was able to
discern a summary court-martial in my mind's eye, and that would knock
my chances for a commission sky-highwards--because a man's military
record must be absolutely spotless when he appears for examination. What
was I to do? Just then I saw the captain go up the colonel's steps, ring
the bell, and in a moment he was admitted. I felt that my corpse was
laid out right then and there and the wake was about to begin.
A few moments later the commanding officer's orderly came in, and
looking around for a minute, caught sight of me and said:
"Corporal, the commanding officer wants to see you at his quarters at
once," and out he went. "Start the band to playing the 'Dead March in
Saul,'" thought I, "because this is the beginning of a funeral
procession in which I am to play the leading part." I walked as slowly
as I could and not appear lagging, but I arrived at my crematory all too
soon. I rapped on the door and in tones that made me shiver was bidden
by the old man to come in. The colonel was standing in the middle of
his parlor, wrapped in a gaudy dressing gown, and in his hand he held my
mangled bulletin. Right at that minute I wished I had never heard a
telegraph instrument click.
"Corporal," said the colonel, "what time did you receive this bulletin?"
"About six-fifteen, sir, immediately after reveille," I replied with a
face as expressionless as a mummy's.
"Why did you not bring it to me direct as you have heretofore done?"
"Well, sir, I didn't think you were awake yet, and I did not want to
disturb you."
"Have you any later news, corporal?"
"No sir, none, but I haven't been back to the office since, sir." Gee!
but that room was becoming warm!
"Are you certain as to the truth of this awful report?"
"It is probably as authentic as a great many stories that are started
during times like these--that is all I know of it, sir." (Lord forgive
me.)
"It seems almost too horrible to be true, and yet, one cannot tell about
those Sioux. They're a bad lot--a devilish bad lot"--this to my
captain--and then to me: "You go back to your office, corporal, and
remain very close until you have a denial or a confirmation of this
story and bring any news you may receive to me instanter. That's all
corporal."
The "corporal" needed no second dismissal, and saluting I quickly got
out of an atmosphere that was far from chilly to me.
Now, by my cussed propensity for joking, I had involved myself in this
mess, and there was but one way out of it, and that was to brazen it out
for a while longer and then post a denial of the supposed awful rumor.
_But the denial must come over the wire_, so when I reached my office I
called up Spofford and told old man Livingston what I had done and what
I wanted him to do for me, and in about half an hour he sent me a
"bulletin" saying that the previous report had happily proved unfounded
and the 6th and 9th Cavalry were all right. This message I took at once
to the colonel and as he read it he heaved a big sigh of relief, but he
dismissed me with a very peculiar look in his eye.
The next evening as I was passing the colonel's quarters on my way to
deliver a message to the hospital, I heard him remark to another
officer, "Major, don't you think it is strange that the papers received
to-day make no mention of that frightful report received-here yesterday
morning relative to the supposed massacre of the 6th and 9th Cavalry?"
No, the major didn't think it a bit strange. Maybe he knew that
newspaper stories should be taken _cum grano salis_, and then maybe he
knew me.
There were no more "fake reports" from that office.