Honoring Marion Ohio Veterans

Marion Daily Star 4-29-1916

An Outpost of
American Army
Trim Brown Tents and Grim
Silence in Mexico.

Mexicans Shoot
for the Pleasure

Americans Conserving Ammunition
in Every Way.

Comment of American Sergeant
in Charge of New American
Type of Army–Mexicans
May Shoot Wrong Way.

By Kent A. Hunter
Columbus, N.M. Apr. 29.
Down at the “South Gate” on the road to Las Palomas, is an outpost of the American Army. Twelve men are there under command of a sergeant, and their trim brown tents, in perfect alignment, show against the skyline of the organ mountains as the teeth of a saw.

In front of the tents are two orderly stacks of rifles, off to one side is the cook tent, with sanitary refuse cans, and a clean oven made of adobe and tin.A typical Remington background is the picked line, some twenty-five yards to the rear of the tents, where the horses of the men lazily kick at each other and chew their hay.
Fifty yards beyond the little American camp is a tumbledown, rickety shack. Around it, in nondescript, ragged and ill-fitting uniforms, lounge some forty Mexicans. One, a little less dirty than the others, is an authority.
The contrast between the American and Carranza armies is clearly shown by two little outposts.
On the Mexicans’ side of the line there is indiscriminate shooting, at crows, at prairie dogs and even at tin cans and bunches of soap weed. On the American side there is a grim silence, as if the men in khaki cherished every shot in their pouches.
On the Mexican side there is abundance of Tequila. Much of the shooting may be attributed to the repeated drafts of the Mexican liquor. Where the American tents are pitched there is a big water can, but no evidence of other liquor.
New American Army
The sergeant in charge is of the new type of the American army. He isn’t more than twenty-six or seven. He is clean shaven, and his hair is close cropped. A short, bristly, typically Broadway mustache is to be noted. He has been on the line since 1913, and has seen much of the antics of Mexican armies.
“Some day,” mused the sergeant, “some of those crazy Mexicans are going to do a little of their shooting this way. Then maybe we can use these.” He pointed to the stacked rifles, slapped the 45 caliber automatic pistol at his side, and ran an appraising finger along the edge of a shiny bayonet that slid on oiled catch bolts from its leather case.
“You know,” he continued, “some of us have been down here for three years. We’ve been shot at by the Mexicans. We’ve had to sit by and pretend not to understand when they shouted their vile words at us, and {unreadable} up with the ‘Muertos a Los {unreadable}, (Death to the Americans) Until the boys of Pershing went through that gate, ten thousand strong, we had to stand it, and like it.
But now things are different. We can go shot for shot with ’em and I don’t know but what we’d do a little more than even trading. Only now, they don’t cuss at us, and they are very careful, to do their shooting toward the interior of Mexico.”
All around the American lines are little holes in the ground, with the spare earth thrown up on the south end.
Trenches says the sergeant in reply to a look of inquiry. One of them is just back of the cook tent. It is about a foot deep, six or seven feet long, and maybe two feet wide. At the south end is a fire log, and on each of the flanking side is another log. The cook showed, just for the fun of it, how he can land in his trench by one flying leap from the back of the cook tent.
The picture recalls the old flag of Massachusetts, with it’s motto: “Don’t Tread on Me.”

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