The Long-Knives 3: Glory's Guidons

By Patrick E. Andrews

Second Lieutenant Brad Pepperdine, a recent graduate of West Point, is assigned to a regiment of African-American soldiers participating in the brutal war against the fierce Comanches. His commanding officer is hard-drinking and embittered by years of service without recognition or promotion. When a renegade band of Comanches begins raiding farms and ranches, the regiment is sent to run them down. As the unit moves into combat, however, Pepperdine begins to understand the black soldiers as well as their Indian enemies. But most of all he learns a lot about himself. He can only hope he masters what he must know before the unit is wiped out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Jul 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311028334

Patrick E. Andrews

Patrick E. Andrews was born in Oklahoma in 1936 into a family of pioneers who participated in its growth from the Indian Territory and Oklahoma Territory to statehood. His father's family were homesteaders and his mother's cattle ranchers. Consequently, he is among the last generation of American writers who had contacts with those people from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Patrick's wife Julie says he both speaks and writes with an Oklahoma accent. He is an ex-paratrooper, having served in the 82nd Airborne Division in the active army and the 12th Special Forces Group in the army reserves. Patrick began his writing career after leaving the army. He and his better half presently reside in southern California. He has a son Bill, who is an ex-paratrooper and a probation officer, and two grandchildren.

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Second Lieutenant Brad Pepperdine, a recent graduate of West Point, is assigned to a regiment of African-American soldiers participating in the brutal war against the fierce Comanches. His commanding officer is hard-drinking and embittered by years of service without recognition or promotion. When a renegade band of Comanches begins raiding farms and ranches, the regiment is sent to run them down. As the unit moves into combat, however, Pepperdine begins to understand the black soldiers as well as their Indian enemies. But most of all he learns a lot about himself. He can only hope he masters what he must know before the unit is wiped out.

THE LONG-KNIVES 2: GLORY’S GUIDONS

By Patrick E. Andrews

Copyright © 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

Our cover features The Warning Shot, painted by Don Stivers.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

Dedicated to

Army Blue

Chapter One

In the year 1875, the United States of America was ten years out of the bloody Civil War that had pitted American against American in the North’s struggle to maintain the union of states, and the South’s aspiration for independence. When it ended in April of 1865, the North had triumphed, thus the country remained the United States, thousands of slaves behind the Mason-Dixon Line were freed. The surviving soldiers of both sides returned home to renew the lives they had abandoned back in 1861.

With those problems settled, the nation could turn its attention back to the previous programs of subjugating the tribes of Native Americans in the west. It promised to be a dangerous and challenging war against the tribes who were ready to defend their cultures, lands and free lives no matter the cost to them.

The U.S. Army had shrunk to an under strength organization spread out across the country. This was taken care of on July 28, 1866 when the Act to Increase and Fix the Military Peace Establishment of the United States was signed into law by President Andrew Johnson. This expansion provided for the cavalry branch to be increased from six to ten regiments. Of those units, two of them were authorized to be made up of African-American soldiers led by white officers. These were the 9th and 10th United States Colored Cavalry regiments.

One of the garrisons manned by these units of black soldiers was Fort Proviso, Kansas. Only three companies of one colored regiment—K, L and M—were allotted to the small post. The eight white officers and close a hundred black non-commissioned officers and enlisted men, were charged with keeping watch over the Comanche Indian Agency located a short distance from the garrison proper. These Native-Americans were a clan of the Comanche Nation led by Chief Strong Bear. He believed the white men’s promise in the treaty agreement made with his people. But a young tribesman by the name of Running Bear had a more realistic opinion of the pact. He did not trust the Great White Father in Washington, and was ready to lead a band of warriors off the reservation to resume the war for his people’s freedom.

The atmosphere at this location was tense and threatening.

~*~

It was a hot afternoon, and just outside Fort Proviso, a bored corporal and a guard watched listlessly as a work detail of four garrison prisoners working under a blistering prairie sun. Each had a burlap bag, and went about the task of picking up dried buffalo dung for use as a source of heat in the garrison’s stoves. The officers’ wives referred to the fuel as buffalo chips, but the soldiers that gathered them were a bit more indelicate. To them it was buffalo shit pure and simple. This by-product of the American Bison was used for fuel because of the scarcity of trees on the Kansas prairie. After it dried, it was odorless and burned low and hot, lasting much longer than wood.

One of the prisoners, a Private Fields who had been sentenced to thirty-days in the guard house for being drunk on duty, glanced up. He spotted a quartermaster wagon being pulled by a mule out on the prairie. It rolled toward them across the flat grasslands. He stopped his work and watched it draw closer.

Where’s he been? he asked of no one in particular.

The corporal obliged him with an answer saying, He was sent over to Wichita to pick up the new officer that’s supposed to report in here today.

The other prisoners gazed at the sight for a few moments before the corporal barked at them to get back to work or they’d be having hardtack and water for supper that night.

A teamster and an officer sat side-by-side on the seat of the vehicle moving over the rolling terrain. The driver waved his hand to his pals in the work detail as the wagon passed them. His passenger gave them only a quick look, then turned his full attention to the view of the army post that was to be his first duty assignment.

As they drew closer, Second Lieutenant Bradwell Pepperdine stood up for a better view. He could see that the fort consisted of a wooden headquarters building (he would later find out that the lumber had been laboriously hauled over from the town of Wichita for the construction of the structure). The one-story affair was obviously serving as the post staff offices in addition to quarters for the commanding officer. The rest of the buildings, including the officers’ quarters, were constructed of sod that was cut in blocks from the prairie. Crude as they were, they provided warmth in winter and coolness during the summer as Pepperdine was soon to experience.

The wagoner skirted the parade ground and stopped in front of post headquarters. I’ll see to unloading your gear, suh. Your quarters are the last one in that row over there. He gestured toward a line of soddies at the far end of the post.

Pepperdine grimaced at the sight as he swung down from the seat. He dusted his uniform once more, then drew a copy of his orders from inside his tunic, and went through a door marked POST ADJUTANT.

The room was Spartan in appearance, occupied only by simple field furniture. Pepperdine walked across the room toward the only occupied desk. He was conscious of the heavy tread of his boots on the bare boards of the floor. He stopped two paces in front of the desk and saluted sharply.

Sir, Second Lieutenant Bradwell Pepperdine reporting to the post adjutant for duty.

The officer didn’t bother to return the salute. Instead, he spoke to the newcomer in a bored tone of voice. Let’s have your orders. Grab one of the chairs and make yourself comfortable while I check you into our glorious regiment.

Pepperdine did as suggested, settling down in front of the desk. Norton perused the papers. Just graduated from the Academy, hey? You’re really starting out on one hell of any army career, Pepperdine. I’m referring to your assignment to a colored regiment. You obviously weren’t the most brilliant cadet in your class, Norton mused. ‘Or was it disciplinary problems?"

Pepperdine’s face reddened. Sir, I consider that—

Never mind, Norton interrupted. This is a small family here, Pepperdine. We’ll find out all about you sooner or later, and you’ll find out all about us. Care for a drink?

It was then that Pepperdine realized the adjutant was slightly drunk. No thank you, sir.

You will, young Lieutenant, Norton said with a grin that was close to a leer. Believe me, the time is nigh when you will most assuredly care for a drink.

Yes, sir.

You’re assigned to L Company. That’s Captain Delaney.

He seems popular with the men, Pepperdine said. The wagoner mentioned him with some affection during my ride in from Wichita.

I doubt very much if you’ll ever mention him with any affection. But let’s get you situated. The protocol of this post is simple enough for the officers. Since we’re the only white people here, and Mrs. Dearborn, the commander’s wife, and Emma, my wife, are the only white women, we tend to socialize more than is usual…whether we like it or not. At any rate, we whites all dine together every evening in the commander’s quarters. Those are Mrs. Dearborn’s wishes, and that’s the way it is. Sunday dinner is full dress.

It sounds like dining is a pleasant social event here.

Whatever you say, Pepperdine. I’ll let your company commander fill you in on any more bits of useful information pertaining to your new assignment.

Pepperdine stood up and saluted.

Once again, Norton ignored the military protocol. Your quarters are the last soddy on officers’ row. But I strongly advise you to call on your company commander before going to your new house. Delaney is one son of a bitch, believe me. Well, good luck and I’ll see you at dinner.

Simple deduction took Pepperdine down the line of barracks and orderly rooms to L Company. The red-and-white guidon identifying the unit hung listlessly from its staff in the hot, still air. He felt a bit apprehensive as he knocked on the door frame.

Come!

Pepperdine stepped into the dark interior almost colliding with the table sitting in the middle of the small room. A heavy-set, balding captain looked up at him. The officer was an elderly appearing man, his puffy face sporting a nose that had become ruddy from years of heavy drinking. He rubbed his hand through an unkempt moustache, waiting for the young officer to report.

Sir, Second Lieutenant Bradwell Pepperdine reports to the commanding officer for duty. He saluted properly and was pleased to note the salute was returned this time.

You’re late, Mr. Pepperdine.

Sir?

I’ve been expecting you for the last six months. Where the hell have you been?

Pepperdine stammered. Well…you see, sir…I guess I was still a cadet… six months ago.

You’re a West Pointer?

Yes, sir.

Well, that makes two of us, Mr. Pepperdine. The rest of the officers here got their commissions from serving in volunteer regiments in the War Between the States. Their only chance for a regular commission was in a colored regiment. It was that or nothing at all. As for myself, my excuse is a rather unlucky thirty-five years in the army. That’s why I’m here. What’s your excuse?

No excuse, sir.

No excuse, huh? Just like back at the Academy. No excuse, sir. You can forget that brand of malarkey, my fine young lieutenant. I’ll not tolerate any Mr. Dumbjohn in my command. If and when you make any mistakes you’d better have good excuses for ’em. Anything to the contrary can result in a court-martial. I have enough problems as it is. The large man pulled a cigar from a box on the desk. My name is Captain Ambrose Delaney, commanding officer of this company.

How do you do, sir.

"I do very well indeed, Mr. Pepperdine. And with you around, I intend to do much better. How are you on