Chasing Pancho Villa by R. L. Tecklenburg Page A

overlook, he observed three or four wooden buildings clustered around the road that ran south to Mexico. The railroad tracks, running east and west, were just behind him. South of the wooden buildings he saw row after row of tents arranged symmetrically in city blocks, stretching toward the west and southwest. They were organized around an empty expanse of field approximately 100 by 40 yards. The only complete wooden structures he saw among the tents sheltered horses. Small formations of men could be seen drilling on the open field, kicking up clouds of brown dust as they marched. The entire, sprawling camp stretched out on a flat desert plain, with mountains rising in the west and southwest.
    He was stopped at the main gate by a Negro military policeman. The young man had stepped out of a small wooden guard shack. A Ford motor transport truck turned in at the same time as Harrison, sending up a screen of dust. He turned away and covered his face.
    â€œWait suh,” the young MP said. “I gotta check the truck through. Quickly he looked into the back, poking under and around sacks of grain with his night stick. He then walked around to the driver. “Where ya goin’, private?” He asked the soldier.
    â€œFeed for the horses. Came in on the train,” the soldier said. He was older than the MP and white.
    â€œPass,” the MP ordered. He turned to walk back to James. The driver put the engine in gear and slowly moved forward.
    â€œYur bus’ness, suh?”
    â€œI’m going to the Third Battalion, 24th Infantry,” James replied. He quickly noticed how the MP was armed—a .45 caliber automatic was strapped to his waist.
    â€œFollow me, suh.” An aimless gust of wind suddenly blew up. It swirled down the roughly graded streets between the squares of tents, dusting everything with another layer of hard, red grit. Directly ahead, James watched the activity. Marching men on the parade field passed again and again through the curtain of dust without breaking formation. Very harsh, bleak conditions, he thought, as they made their way around the parade ground to a regimental headquarters area. He could tell by the banner waving in the breeze out in front of one of the larger tents that it was the 24th Infantry’s headquarters.
    He deliberately slowed the pace to observe the Army camp more closely. He recalled what Jonesy had told him about their duties at Camp Furlong: “to catch gun smugglers and Mexican rebels crossing the border…and to keep an eye on the Niggers.”
    They continued walking until they came to another large tent with the Third Battalion banner out front.
    â€œJust like hell,” Harrison mumbled, remembering what Charlie had said.
    â€œWe is here, suh,” the MP said to James. “He’ll help ya fine.” He waved to another Negro soldier standing at parade rest with a Springfield rifle in front of the tent. The MP departed the same way he came.
    â€œYeah, suh,” the young soldier stated firmly before James could climb the three steps into the tent. “Ya bus’ness, suh?”
    â€œI’m looking for Major Kneeland Snow,” Harrison said. “I’m expected.”“Inside, suh,” the soldier said, holding the tent flap open. Trucks rattled by, churning up more dust in the camp.
    â€œThank you,” Harrison responded, entering. His young escort turned and returned to his duties.
    The command tent was oppressively hot and stuffy. “I’m looking for the Battalion Commander,” Harrison announced to the tired looking Negro soldier at the first desk he encountered.
    â€œSir, who ain’t,” the man replied slowly without looking up.
    â€œI mean, I have an appointment with Major Snow.”
    The soldier finally looked up. “And yur name, sir, is?”
    â€œJames,” he announced. “Harrison James.” The other soldiers in the tent stopped what they were doing to stare