The Captain, as he said himself, was a poor hand at saying good-by. He was in New York shortly before we sailed for Africa, but wrote: “I must leave here to-day for Sioux Falls; then again I am a mollycoddle when it comes to bidding good-by; can always easier write good-by than speak it.”
His gloomy forebodings about the Brazilian trip were well justified. He was writing me to South America:
I was glad to hear you will be with your father. I have been uneasy about this trip of his, but now that I know you are along I will be better satisfied. I don’t think much of that country you are to explore as a health resort, and there are no folks like home folks when one is sick.
The Captain made up his mind that if his regiment had failed to get into the Cuban War the same thing would not happen in the case of another war. In July, 1916, when the Mexican situation seemed even more acute than usual, I heard from the Captain:
If we have war with Mexico you and I will have to go. I am daily in receipt of application from the best riders in the country. Tell the Colonel I have carried out his plan for the forming of a regiment, and within fifteen days from getting word from him, will have a regiment for his division that will meet with his approval. You are to have a captaincy to start with. I don’t think Wilson will fight without he is convinced it will aid in his election. He is like Artemus Ward—willing to sacrifice his wife’s relations on the altar of his country.
The Mexican situation continued to drag along, but we at length entered the European war, and for a while it looked as if my father would be allowed to raise a division and take it over to the other side. The Captain had already the nucleus of his regiment, and the telegrams passed fast and furiously. However, for reasons best known to the authorities in Washington, it all turned out to be to no purpose. The Captain was enraged. He wrote me out to Mesopotamia, where I was serving in the British forces:
I was very much disgusted with Wilson when he turned us down. I had a splendid organization twelve hundred strong, comprising four hundred miners from the Black Hills Mines, four hundred railroad boys from the lines of the Chicago and Northwestern, and the C. B. and Q. in South Dakota, Western Nebraska, and Wyoming, and four hundred boys from the ranges of Western South Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming. It was the pick of the country. Your troop was especially good; while locally known as the Deadwood troop, most of the members were from the country northwest of Belle Fourche; twenty of your troop were Sioux who had served on the Indian police. Sixty-five per cent of the regiment had military training. Damn the dirty politics that kept us from going. I am busy now locally with the Red Cross and the Exemption Board of this county, being chairman of each. We will show the Democrats that we are thoroughbreds and will do our bit even if we are compelled to remain at home with the Democrats.
After expatiating at some length and with great wealth of detail as to just what he thought of the attitude of the administration, the Captain continued with some characteristic advice:
I am going to caution you now on being careful when you are on the firing line. Don’t try for any Victoria Cross, or lead any forlorn hopes; modern war does not require these sacrifices, nor are battles won that way nowadays. I wouldn’t have you fail in any particular of a brave American soldier, and I know you won’t, but there is a vast difference between bravery and foolhardiness, and a man with folks at home is extremely selfish if unnecessarily foolhardy in the face of danger.