Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer

up laboriously. There were mesas like huge rose-and-ocher hills sliced flat by giants, and more arroyos, and again more plains that stretched out and away until their eyeballs ached trying to stare to the end of them. There were hills, and thickets, and here and there enormous cactus trees with arms like signposts to nowhere erected by idiots. And over and under and through everything was the heat, and the wind, and the dust it bore, that coated them as they walked until they looked like a horde of tramps made out of dough.
    They had started out from the post merrily enough, with the regimental band arrayed just outside the gate playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Captain Parrish had given them “eyes right” as they swung past the colonel, a short, red-faced man with white walrus mustaches, who saluted them smartly. They were marching to battle, they were going to catch up with a mean old Mexican bandit named Camargas who had invaded United States territory and robbed a United States post office. They were going to track him down and defeat him in open battle. Three columns flanked by cavalry were going to converge on Montemorelos, where Camargas’ base of operations was—or at least that was what the sergeants said. It was going to be Buena Vista and Chapultepec all over again. Outnumbered five to one, twenty to one, it would make no difference—they were going to rout the infamous Greasers, avenge the insult to the flag, and plunge on to glory. It had been a still, clear morning and they’d been able to hear the strains of the regimental band for a long while. The sergeants had kept them at a smart column of fours, their packs were light and riding easy, and their veins pumped with the wine of adventure.
    But that had been six days ago, and in the meantime the country had begun to tell on them. Their feet were sore, they had slung their rifles, and their shirts were stiff with dust and dried sweat; there was very little joking, and no singing at all.
    â€œWhen we going to run into this Camargas joker?” Devlin queried aloud. “My feet hurt.” He had a blue handkerchief drawn tight over his nose and mouth, and his campaign hat was pulled down over his eyes: he looked like a cowboy bandit on a drunk. “Tell you what, Sam.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m going to put that Pancho C. in a cage and take him back with me to Chicopee Falls and exhibit him at twenty-five cents a head. Then I’ll retire on the profits. What are you going to do?”
    â€œI’m going to lie in a pool for three days and nights.” He was dying of thirst; he saw water everywhere—in still mountain lakes, in rivers, in thunderous waterfalls. His head throbbed and his throat was like scraped leather. His tongue felt like a bag of resin. It was dry country, a cruel country. A country without water. Only fools and outlaws would choose to live in a country like this.
    â€œWell sure, but after that.”
    â€œDrink the pool dry.” He would rather die than tell Devlin—even his bunkie Devlin—the truth. He was going to lead a charge, like Captain Howard of the voltigeurs on the walls of Chapultepec, he was going to drag a mountain howitzer up to the belfry of the Church of San Cosmé and open fire on the gates of the city, like General Grant. The high places, take the high places. He was going to distinguish himself, right here in Mexico.
    â€œI’m going to get me one of those jackets embroidered in silver,” Devlin offered. “And one of those combs Mexican women wear standing straight up at the back of their heads.” He heaved a sigh. “But I wish to hell I’d joined the cavalry.”
    â€œYep, the cavalry gets the glory and the infantry eats the dust,” Corporal Thomas told them. “Should have thought of that when you signed up.”
    Sam Damon wasn’t so sure. He could not rid himself, even now, of the feeling that the