The Last Days of George Armstrong Custer (26 page)

At this moment, Reno's men should have been causing general mayhem by slicing through the tepees and shooting down fleeing warriors. The unexpected attack from Custer's command from the eastern hills would have added firepower to the heavy assault and finished the task. It would then have been a matter of chasing down the warriors trying to escape to the north and west, rounding up the women and children as prisoners, and beginning the task of burning the village. But Reno was nowhere to be seen. Where was Reno?

Now, with the appearance of such a vast number of warriors, Custer decided that he must postpone his plans to attack, withdraw and re-form his battalion, and wait for Benteen and Reno and the pack train of ammunition to arrive.

And the best tactical position to fight off the enemy in a delaying action, although there were few natural terrain features to use as breastworks, was on the ridge above. Whoever commanded the high ground in a battle usually had the upper hand. His troopers scrambled up the coulees to avoid the withering fire and halted at what would become the last-stand position to form a perimeter. This place would not have been the ideal location chosen by Custer for a defensive position, but by then he had no choice in the matter. The warriors who were gathering in strength all around him were now dictating his actions.

Captain Keogh had either observed Custer's movement or received a message or signal and aborted his own ride to the north to instead rendezvous with his commander. Keogh's battalion was then dispatched to a position on the high ridge south of Custer—known as Battle Ridge—between Medicine Tail and Deep Ravine and formed a skirmisher line. Company L under First Lieutenant Jimmy Calhoun assumed the position farthest south on what would be known as Calhoun Hill—acting as rear guard waiting for the expected arrival of Reno and Benteen.

Custer must have been furious at the failure of Reno to charge the village and the fact that neither of his two other battalions—Reno nor Benteen—could be seen riding to the rescue. He had ordered Benteen to come quickly, yet there was no sight of any soldiers within the craggy ravines and spotted vegetation to the south. Nor had there been any messengers dispatched to inform Custer of the position and disposition of the two missing battalions.

Could they not have heard the firing? This battle was far from lost. Additional firepower from the rifles of the 250-plus men from the other battalions could save the day. The thought that he had been betrayed by his subordinates who had disobeyed orders and abandoned him must have crossed his mind.

Perhaps Custer entertained another more chilling reason for the absence of Reno and Benteen. Had the other two battalions suffered the unthinkable and were at that moment lying slaughtered on the valley floor to the south? Was that the reason they had not ridden to rendezvous with Custer? He could not recognize any blue-clad bodies lying in the vicinity where Reno had executed his charge. So there must have been some other explanation for the mysterious disappearance of more than half of his command.

Army officers and men in the field would never ignore the heavy firing that could be heard from miles away—unless they were dead. They would rush at all costs to reinforce their comrades. It was well known from his Civil War days that Custer agonized over every casualty and took his responsibility as a commander seriously knowing men's lives were in the balance. And he had observed the swarms of warriors approaching from the south, where he assumed was the location of his other battalions. It would not have been out of the question to speculate that Reno's command had been overrun and killed to a man. There were an overwhelming number of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors out there.

Possibly Custer observed smoke from the burning prairie several miles to the south and believed that the other battalions were engaged in battle. But … what were they doing several miles to the south? The village, their objective, was right there directly across the river. The officers who had served in Custer's Civil War commands were always eager to sail into the enemy at any cost. Where were Reno and Benteen?

The Custer battlefield was by now the scene of intense fighting, with dust and smoke and fear filling the air. But there was no panic. These men were trained soldiers, and many of them had fought with Custer in the Yellowstone or at Washita and a number were Civil War veterans. Their commander was known for his coolness under fire and his uncanny ability to succeed against any enemy. There was no reason to suspect that this encounter would be any different.

The attitude of these cavalrymen toward their Sioux and Cheyenne counterparts initially had been one of an impersonal, dispassionate hate for a people that their government had chosen to fight. Soldiers were indoctrinated in that manner and expected to hate someone they may have to kill, which was supposed to make killing easier. They had been informally conditioned to dismiss any respect they might have had for their enemy as human beings and consider them simply savages who deserved to die. That was and will be the mind-set of American soldiers toward their enemy in every war, past and future.

In this case, the powers that be did not have to work too hard to demonize the Sioux and Cheyenne in the eyes of the average cavalryman. Stories of atrocities by these tribes toward innocent whites—killing, raping, kidnapping, stealing livestock, and burning homes—were well documented. It was not difficult—perhaps it was human nature—for a soldier to hate a group of nameless, faceless people of an alien race who had terrorized and killed their fellow countrymen. As far as they were concerned, these Indians had been given their chance to live in peace as civilized human beings and had answered that entreaty with violence.

All things considered, it was the soldiers' job to protect the interests of America, which was why they wore the uniform. They were paid to kill, if necessary. But now, as bullets and arrows filled the air, they were not fighting out of a hate for their enemy.

The soldiers of the Seventh Cavalry were fighting to preserve and protect the lives of their comrades as much as their own lives. It became a quest for group survival. Triumph over the enemy became secondary—only as a means to end the battle. The men on each side had shared one another's intimate joys and sorrows and knew everyone's life story almost as well as they knew their own. There had been an unspoken bonding as they had trained and played together in a unique atmosphere that only the military provides. They expected to be able to depend on their comrades, and that engendered a sense of security.

Each one of them would do whatever was called for to protect his fellow cavalryman with his own life, if necessary. Nothing brought out a comradeship—even a kinship—in men like experiencing combat. In addition, they were fighting to return to see once more their mothers and fathers, or wives and girlfriends, or simply to experience that familiar, peaceful routine in their lives that they had foolishly called boredom and monotony. The thought of the broken hearts at home should they fail to return was too sad to even consider.

This brotherhood under fire explains why men throughout history have performed uncommon individual acts of heroism on the battlefield worthy of high commendation. A man would impulsively smother a live grenade with his own body to save the lives of comrades while losing his own, or brazenly rush into an expanse of intense enemy fire to carry the wounded back to safety, or execute a suicidal charge into a gun emplacement to relieve the rate of fire that was devastating his company's position. No one ever ordered these acts of valor and they were not planned—they came naturally in combat. A soldier does not consciously think about becoming a hero—he simply reacts to the situation.

Anxiety increased as casualties mounted around the cavalrymen. This engagement above the Little Bighorn River had now become a life-or-death struggle, and the outcome was in question. Seeing close companions beside them die and the thought of themselves dying was a powerful motivator to make a man fight with a will and determination he never knew he had within him. The unnaturalness of looking death in the eye was a time of indescribable controlled terror, when a man depended on his instincts and military training. With ammunition running low and more and more Indians appearing around them, the peril of their predicament quickly became evident. They would be firing and reloading their rifles and pistols at will, praying that the seemingly endless stream of warriors who confronted them would end before their ammunition ran out.

It was not only the stress of combat that plagued the cavalrymen but natural and man-made elements as well. The fiery sun had transformed the barren prairie into a sweltering wasteland of heat that dried mouths, cooked heads to the point of dizziness, and even in the dry air produced a drenching sweat that caused them to itch with the bites of a million insects. The acrid odor from plumes of gunpowder mixed with swirling dust to torture the nostrils and stab the eyes to blur vision, not to mention the constant firing of weapons around them that caused temporary deafness.

The Little Bighorn River below with its tree-lined shady banks must have looked like paradise from up on that hillside. But the pathway to the river was blocked by hundreds, if not thousands, of well-armed enemy warriors intent on killing. It was entirely possible, however, that a few soldiers were tempted to break ranks and make a dash for that narrow ribbon of a waterway. They would have been quickly cut down.

By now, word had spread through the ranks that ammunition and reinforcements had been summoned. Help was surely on the way. No doubt these brave men fighting for their lives along Battle Ridge would often glance with anticipation toward the south for any sign of cavalrymen and a pack train approaching at double time.

Just as Custer wondered about the disposition of Reno and Benteen, the common trooper along Battle Ridge understood that his fate was now in the hands of his missing brothers in blue. It was evident the troopers could not prevail alone, but they had a chance to survive if more men would arrive with the firepower and ammunition to relieve the pressure of the mounting number of warriors.

The Indians had effectively surrounded Custer's beleaguered battalion that had hastily formed along Battle Ridge and on Custer Hill, but even with a huge advantage in numbers they did not immediately charge the soldiers. Most warriors remained at a safe distance—hidden in the tall buffalo grass, sagebrush, or bushes, using the rugged terrain for cover—and fired an endless stream of arcing arrows and rifle fire at their pinned-down adversaries. Some warriors would sneak up close to wave blankets and pick off horse holders in an attempt to run off the cavalry mounts that carried precious ammunition in their saddlebags. Small herds of captured horses would then be stampeded through the various positions in an attempt to roust the men from their cover.

The frantic, outnumbered cavalrymen shot their few remaining horses for breastworks, trying to conceal themselves while returning fire—like little dogs barking as loud as possible to keep the big dogs away—until ammunition ran out.

Eventually, as the defenses along Battle Ridge became more vulnerable and no more bullets remained, incidences of hand-to-hand combat became commonplace. The Sioux and Cheyenne came forward in overwhelming numbers with hatchets, clubs, and coup sticks—with others shooting their rifles and firing arrows point-blank at the unarmed and exposed soldiers.

By then, the cavalrymen were reduced to fighting by swinging their empty rifles and slashing with their knives and whatever else they could use as a weapon. One by one, agonizing cries of pain and horror filled the air and soldiers fell dead and severely wounded as each pocket of resistance became weakened by the loss of manpower and the overpowering number of enemy rushed in for the kill. The ground became littered with bloody bodies of soldiers who would never fight again.

The ammunition and reinforcements that could have saved them never arrived. And there were too many attackers to fend off. According to testimony by various warriors, the bravery of the troopers was admirable as they fought for their lives—a trait earning them great respect in the eyes of the Sioux and Cheyenne.

The timetable of events during this battle is difficult to piece together accurately due to the tactics employed by the warriors on the battlefield. The Indians, unlike the United States Army, did not fight as a unit under specific orders.

Certain respected warriors, such as Crazy Horse and Gall, may rally a group of men to follow them, but when the battle was under way each individual warrior was free to do whatever he pleased. He could close with the enemy or hide behind a shrub and launch arrows or fire bullets. No chief would think of telling any warrior specifically how to fight. Therefore, individuals generally had no idea about time frames or an overall perspective of a battle. Occasionally testimony may appear contradictory when in truth it was merely a view of one particular warrior who had no knowledge of the movements of his brethren on the field.

George Armstrong Custer was no stranger to being surrounded by his enemy. He had punched his way through the Confederate ring of fire more than once during the Civil War when surrounded. At some point, however, Custer, who had fought and survived so many murderous battles throughout his young adult life, must have become aware that the end was near for himself and all of the men around him.

There would be no last-minute bugle calls signaling the distant sound of thundering cavalry horses approaching. It was too late for that anyway—the enemy was closing in too quickly. Instead, the sounds in his ears were of a growing number of war whoops that ventured closer and closer combined with cries of the wounded and dying and the whinnies of terrified horses.

For unknown reasons, Reno and Benteen would not be coming to save them. And where was “Custer's Luck” to save him? Apparently he had used up his nine lives.

The picture that could be painted of Custer in those final moments was one of a soldier who would fight until the last drop of his blood was spilled. There was a likelihood that he had watched his two brothers fall, and his nephew, and others who were dear to him—and he himself was on the threshold of the worst that could happen in battle.