Undecided about whether to buy the book or not? I don’t blame you. Play it safe and prepare to scroll through the opening chapter first, completely free of charge.
CHAPTER ONE
Cowboys & Indians
I have always found entering America to be a bizarre experience. In 2005 I visited Niagara Falls, spent all of thirty minutes on the Canadian side of the river, then spent an hour in a queue to return to the United States. Fifty cents and a quick flash of your passport will allow you safe passage into the US’s northern neighbour; whereas an iris scan, finger printing, and a litany of questions including ‘Have you eaten anything whilst in Canada?’ was expected of me by Uncle Sam. Still, I was luckier than the woman and her baby taken to an office adjacent to me and subjected to half an hour of shouting by an immigration officer. Goodness knows what she must have eaten.
It’s because of past experiences such as my Niagara nightmare, where I spent more time waiting in line than at the falls themselves, that the thought of entering the US fills me with dread. Worst of all, the entry procedure begins when you’re 30,000 feet above sea level.
In order to be approved and accepted, and as long as you are a citizen of one of the 27 eligible nations, you are expected to complete what is known as an I-94W Nonimmigrant Visa Waiver Arrival/Departure Form. This, completed successfully and to the satisfaction of the terribly rude and sociopathic passport control officer, will allow you to spend ninety days in the Land of Opportunity. Along with the obvious and compulsory inclusion of your name, address, and nationality, part 10 requests you complete the address at which you are staying – pretty pointless if you plan to trek from coast-to-coast in an improvised and impromptu style. It isn’t even that easy to fabricate an American address either: house numbering stateside can be anything from 1-50,000.
Still, the fun and desultory questioning doesn’t begin until you realise there is more awaiting you on the form’s reverse – and these really have me perplexed.
‘Do any of the following apply to you?’ it begins, and then continues to list a series of statements to which you simply tick the box marked ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
Do I have a communicable disease or am I a drug addict? Nope. Mind you, how do British rock bands manage to sly their way past that one?
Am I a criminal or have I spent five years in prison? No.
Have I ever been deported from the US or previously removed from the United States? No.
Have I ever detained, retained or withheld custody of a child from a US citizen granted custody of the child? Well, let’s have a think about that one. There was that time I withheld custody of a child back home, and that time I did it again after a night out in Prague…Neither of those involved a US citizen, so that’s a ‘No’.
The form also includes the mother of all statements. One to which I’m sure the ‘Yes’ box has never been ticked since the form’s introduction in 1986. And this one is so good I copied it onto my mobile phone word-for-word.
‘C. Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage; or in terrorist activities; or in genocide; or between 1933 and 1945 were involved, in any way, in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?’
Who in their right mind would even contemplate gracing ink to the ‘Yes’ box? Even Rudolph Hess, who was still alive when the form was first completed, would simply have ridden his luck and hoped he wasn’t recognised.
Once completed and signed, the form only then warns you that if you have answered ‘yes’ to any of the statements, you should contact the American Embassy before travelling to the United States, since you may be refused admission. When considering that by now the plane is making its final descent into Newark International Airport, it’s just a little late to ask the pilot to turn around so you can plead with the ambassador in Grosvenor Square that you have already served your time for crimes against humanity following the Nuremburg Trials.
Anyway, having been born in 1981 and denied my chance of meeting anyone even loosely affiliated with Nazism by Bateman and his broken ankle, I made my way to passport control ready to face whatever impudent and graceless officer Newark airport had chosen to place on the day’s rota.
‘Hey, number 14, NOW!’ he shouted as Antony and I shuffled ourselves toward his allotted booth before he really lost his temper.
‘Been here before?’ he asked in a stentorian voice. I gathered he meant the US and not booth 14.
‘I have, Antony hasn’t,’ I replied simply. The iris and finger scans followed before he examined our passports meticulously, every so often staring down at the picture before locking eyes with us, in a way which suggested we had each replaced our official photo with a candid image of the two of us in bed with his wife.
Having finally passed security, Antony and I were free to leave the airport and catch a shuttle bus to New York City to begin our American adventure. Unfortunately, our first port of call was 2,000 miles west in the vast plains of Montana. The Manhattan skyline which appeared to glisten and shine below the cumbersome and dated wing of our plane as she descended onto American soil was to be as misleading as our collection of luggage at the carousel. While our fellow passengers departed through the terminal’s automatic doors to hail a cab or collect a hire car, we made our way to the check-in desks and produced our documents once again in order to board a six-hour flight to Salt Lake City.
Ever since I first visited in 2005, I’ve liked Salt Lake City. Sure, the Mormons may have ruined it slightly by enforcing that all beer sold in the state should have an alcohol content of less than 3.2%. And yes, the Great Salt Lake itself smells of sulphur, and is home to nothing more than billions of flies that cling to the shoreline and move in massive swathes like the rippling effect of water whenever anything comes near; but, generally, Utah’s largest city and capital is a pleasant place to be. The city stands at the foot of the spectacularly beautiful Wasatch mountains, many of which are snow-capped even when the thermometers have pushed the mercury past 100 (which is a regular occurrence in the summer). Its downtown area is well laid out and unobtrusive, while 8-lane inner-city roads mean that traffic jams are rare.
Still, there was no time to hang around and survey the city’s many architectural delights such as the Salt Lake Temple and the ultra-modern public library, nor was there enough respite for a quick bathe in our motel’s outdoor pool. Today was Tuesday. Because I was too frugal to buy an expensive flight there, we were left with an 8-hour drive through three states in order to arrive in Hardin, Montana for, the beginning of Antony’s and my acting career.
The state of Montana has the nickname ‘Big Sky Country’, which I’m sure has as much to do with the region’s beautiful blue atmosphere as it does with the fact that there isn’t anything of great interest on the ground. When you take into account that the state - the 4th largest in the Union - is three times the size of England but home to just a fiftieth of its population, it’s little wonder that the region appears to be totally deserted. Thankfully, the town of Hardin seemed open for business and so Antony and I made our way to the Chamber of Commerce. We wanted to learn more about the town’s weekend extravaganza, Big Horn Days, and to see if we could become active cast members for the highlight of the weekend, the Custer’s Last Stand Reenactment.
The Hardin Chamber of Commerce is situated in the town’s old train depot and, although there were many displays and purchasable goods pertaining to the Battle of Little Bighorn, Antony and I headed straight for the back office and to the three elderly ladies who operated the Chamber’s business.
‘Hello. Is it possible to speak to Dorothy or Betty?’ I asked, thinking it was best to speak to one of the ladies with whom I had exchanged emails about the reenactment.
‘I’m Betty and she’s Dorothy,’ replied the lady closest to me. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Um, we’ve exchanged emails if you remember?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, proving she was either very good at putting a name to a face, or that she didn’t receive emails from the UK too often.
‘Still possible for us to take part in the reenactment is it?’ I asked rather timidly. A look of worry shrouded Betty’s face as she rose from her seat in order to fetch a large book from the shelf behind her desk.
In her emails, Betty had assured me that the show was always in need of fort soldiers, and that if we brought a navy jacket and a pair of navy trousers with a yellow stripe down the seam, we would be more than welcome to take part. I had both – albeit with some masking tape acting as the yellow stripe.
‘You could be a pioneer,’ suggested Betty as she ran her finger down one of the book’s pages. Antony and I glanced at each other in disappointment.
Imagine, if you will, the situation. I had driven from my Cornish home to Gatwick airport, flown to New York, waited three hours for a connection, caught another flight to Salt Lake City, then driven 600 miles to a small town in the middle of nowhere, just so an elderly woman could tell me that I could be a pioneer! Someone who dresses like a character from Little House on the Prairie, whose only action throughout the entire production was simply to walk from one side of the battlefield to the other. I was going to have to be just a tad more insistent.
‘Any chance we could be fort soldiers? You said that they are always on the lookout for them. We’ve brought the navy jacket and trousers you asked for. I would have brought the gun too, but they didn’t sell them at the army surplus store where I bought the clothes, and I doubt I would have managed to smuggle it through customs anyway.’
Betty looked up and slid her glasses from the front to the bridge of her nose. ‘Pioneer?’
Thankfully, Betty eventually submitted to our request and Antony and I were despatched from the Chamber with identical application forms to complete in the town’s main street on one of the tables that were positioned on the sidewalk. It was at this point that I turned to my new travelling partner and decided to explain why I love ‘small-town America.’
‘Ant, isn’t this wonderful? We are in a place with a population of just over 3,000; there is nothing but fields once you leave the town limit, and the closest settlement of any reasonable size is almost 50 miles away. We must be the only British people in the entire county.’
It was a serious point on which to ponder, and made us both think more about the importance of our role in the weekend’s reenactment. This quickly diminished when we sat ourselves down with a can of cold drink and began to fill in the application form. We realised that the only other table at which people were sat consisted of four people, including an Englishman and his Scottish friend. What made things worse was the fact that without an American social security number and no work visa, there was no way we would be paid the $70 for our amateur dramatics.
After returning the forms (which had more disclaimers and places to sign than my mortgage agreement) to Betty at the Chamber, and confirming our place as fort soldiers by deflecting yet another one of Betty’s attempts to encourage us to take on the role of a pioneer, we decided that we would treat ourselves and each purchase a kepi (a style of hat similar to those worn by the French gendarmes) to complete our makeshift, 19th century regimental outfits.
Due to the popularity of Big Horn Days, Hardin’s three motels were booked solid for the three-day event, and so Antony and I based ourselves in Billings, Montana’s largest city, conveniently located just 50 miles west of Hardin along I-90. It was here that Antony and I experienced our first decent night’s sleep since leaving the UK.
The next day, Antony and I found ourselves in Hardin a couple of hours before the rehearsal was scheduled to begin, so we decided that it was a sensible idea to visit the local museum to see if we could garner any more information about the battle. Before now, I simply knew that the official name of the conflict was The Battle of Little Bighorn, Custer’s first name was George, it was probably the most famous Indian victory, and that Custer’s men not only suffered a humiliating defeat but were totally annihilated. I was pretty sure that this knowledge wouldn’t stand us in great stead when we met up with our fellow reenactors who presumably had years of experience, and would frown upon any faux-pas made by two bungling Englishmen who had applied for a part in the festivities simply for a holiday jolly. And you’ll be impressed with what we managed to discover in such a short amount of time.
What first struck me about the museum was the panoramic picture of the town taken in 1921 that adorned one of the building’s walls. By simply changing the cars for their modern counterparts, the photo could easily pass as a black and white picture taken now. The museum’s toilet was one of the most aesthetically pleasing places in which I have ever had the fortune to excrete. It’s similar to a bathroom you’d find in your grandmother’s house, with the added bonus of a moose head and Indian artefacts which you could study while business was being taken care of downstairs. Antony and I entered hoping to learn more about the Battle of Little Bighorn and left the museum safe in the knowledge that the town hasn’t changed greatly in the past 80 years, the toilet was lovely, and that even though Montana’s dress code (especially with the over 40s) appeared to be denim dungarees, chequered shirt with oily baseball cap, and some sort of overgrown beard, not a single one of Hardin’s previous 24 mayors had facial hair. That should impress the lads on the battlefield.
The site of the reenactment is five miles to the west of Hardin and fifteen miles directly north-west of where the actual battle took place, just outside the rather ridiculously named town of Crow Agency. A large, shabby-looking sign with the words ‘CUSTER RE-ENACTMENT SITE’ directed us from the main road and onto a dirt track. Travelling anything above ten miles an hour shot rocks and emitted huge clouds of dust from the rear tyres of the car, shrouding whatever had the misfortune to be behind you in a visually impenetrable plume of dirt which seemed to take forever to settle. After 500 yards, the track reached the brow of a hill, the road became much firmer, giving way to grass, and the higher ground revealed something I was certainly not expecting. There, in the middle of a flat plain amongst the rolling hills of Montana’s Big Horn County, standing proudly before an assortment of corrals and camper vans like some modern-day refugee camp, stood a grandstand large enough to accommodate thousands of people. I had expected people who had paid $16 to see the show to sit on a bank or jostle for position to get a good view of the battlefield. Yet here was an arched stand known as bleachers (a wooden, roofless and inexpensive section of seating) that stood perfectly positioned in front of the ‘stage’ complete with fifty flags: one to represent each state in the union.
Once parked, Antony and I looked around for anyone who looked as if they knew what two aspiring reenactors from England should be doing. Luckily, by the steps leading to the commentary box, beneath the flag of Idaho, we found Dave Riley, the show’s director, and the Reenactment committee chairperson Barbara Fickle. (Before you start thinking that I have a brilliant and slightly disturbing knowledge of the state flags which, can lead me straight to Idaho, I should point out that the particular state in question’s ensign has the words ‘State of Idaho’ emblazoned on it…twice).
‘Excuse me, but we’re fort soldiers,’ I said proudly. ‘Just wondering if you knew what we should be doing.’
After discovering that we were an hour early for the rehearsal, Dave introduced himself and Barbara, and informed us of our very complicated duties during each one of the weekend’s four shows.
‘Basically, you come out of the fort and die,’ said Dave bluntly, before Barbara added the killer line: ‘And you just lie there until the show ends and the national anthem is played.’
Antony and I looked at each other, wiping sweat from our foreheads, imagining how hot it would be lying ‘dead’ in the middle of a field for the duration of the show. Antony then asked what both of us were thinking. ‘How long do we have to stay there for? The entire show?’
‘Oh, no,’ Barbara replied. ‘You only come out of the fort at the very end for the final battle. You’ll only be on the ground for about five or ten minutes.’
So instead of having to lie on the ground for over an hour, mine and Antony’s basic duties as fort soldiers were far more exciting: we were to stand in the fort for almost an hour, hidden away from the audience, before falling to the floor and staying there for a bit.
Simple.
Barbara remained talking to us as Dave made his way into the commentary box which stood in the centre of the stand, and gave us her number one tip for reenactment debutants: ‘Bring bags of candy with you.’
‘Pardon?’ I asked, not because candy was the stupid American word for sweets, but because the advice just sounded so peculiar. ‘What do we need candy for?’
‘For the Indian kids. When you die, they run across the field and try and get whatever they can from you. If you don’t have candy you could be in a bit of trouble. One guy lost his pants one year!’
‘We are in the right place, aren’t we?’ asked Antony. ‘We haven’t stepped into some sort of sordid, outdoor orgy?’
With a lot of organising to be getting on with, Barbara told us the best place to buy sweets, before making her apologies and leaving us to assemble the tables where the re-enactors would sit for lunch following the rehearsal. At 1.30, an announcement thundered out of the site’s public address system to inform us that the rehearsal was just fifteen minutes away, and if the actors weren’t already in costume, now was the time to change and meet your respective stage manager. It wasn’t difficult for us to locate our correct supervisor. It didn’t take a genius to realise that if we were fort soldiers, we should walk in the direction of the fort – a wooden structure made from thin tree trunks bound together, approximately 20ft high, with a 200ft perimeter and two gigantic plywood gates.
The inside was pretty basic: a seating area which appeared to have been constructed by me (or someone else with equally terrible DIY skills), a portaloo, and a large wooden desk, on which we were promised two water tanks would be placed for tomorrow’s opening show. Other than that, the fort - which was only three-sided to allow the cavalry easy access from the rear when their presence was not required on the battlefield - was pretty spacious, probably due to the lack of soldiers who had bothered to attend the rehearsal.
In all there were just five of us, and the first thing Antony and I noticed was that their perfectly itemised and historically-accurate outfits put our half-assed efforts to shame. Our inept attempt at clothing ourselves didn’t seem to bother our stage manager, Pat, however, who clipped his walkie-talkie onto the waistline of his trousers and came over to greet us.
‘You two fort soldiers then?’ he enquired.
‘Apparently so,’ I replied, attempting to make a subtle apology for our attire, or lack thereof. ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Well, Bob needs two people to open the gates…’
‘We can do that,’ I replied expeditiously, sensing an instant promotion from fort soldiers to the more important-sounding ‘fort soldier/gate operatative’, or perhaps ‘defenders of the gate’; maybe even ‘threshold protectorates’. Yes, the title of ‘threshold protectorates’ would fit Antony and me quite nicely.
Bob Port was a rather burly fellow in his early 40s, with a grey biker-style moustache and a friendly and youthful face. He explained how to open the gates – a difficult procedure which involved removing the rope from around the handles and then pulling sharply towards the inside of the fort – before changing the conversation to something far more British. ‘Oh, man. I love your Britcoms. My wife and I watch them all the time.’
Thinking Bob would list some of Britain’s most recent finest, he began to recite the British situation comedies that American public television decides to broadcast.
‘We love ‘Allo ‘Allo, Waiting For God and…what’s that one where the guy lives off the land?’
‘The Good Life!’ I supplied in complete and utter shock.
‘They’re about twenty years old!’ added Antony. ‘What about Only Fools and Horses, and The Office?’ Bob stood dumbfounded and a puzzled look appeared on his face.
‘We like Fawlty Towers too,’ he added.
All was forgiven.
By now, the rehearsal was well underway, and because Antony and I had nothing to do apart from open a gate and die, we remained talking to Bob until a voice from above our heads introduced himself. Looking down from a rickety-looking platform to the right-hand side of the gates stood a man whose outfit not only looked exquisite, but made Antony and I look less like military figures and more like Compo from Last of the Summer Wine. According to his business card, which he dropped from his 10ft vantage point - landing between a clump of long grass and a dead rabbit - his name was Rod Beattie and he was portraying 1st Sergeant James Butler, the apparent ‘Last Man Standing at Custer’s Last Stand.’
‘Those World War Two RAF jackets?’ he asked.
‘Um…yeah,’ I replied, not actually knowing what they were.
As it transpired, when he managed to navigate his way down the ladder, past two rungs which were broken and not to be stepped upon, Rod - a rather dapper looking fellow with what was starting to become the prerequisite reenactor moustache (this time of a thick, drooping handlebar and chin puff-style design) - was an avid collector of military paraphernalia. He stood before us and studied our outfits, in the same way a headmaster would look disapprovingly at a pupil who had been made to stand outside his office. And he was right to do so, really. I was wearing Nike trainers (circa. 2005, not 1885); navy trousers from when I worked for Haven holidays, where I was employed to serve outrageously overpriced alcohol to over-aggressive northerners; and the navy jacket, which may have looked good on the previous owner but stopped short a few inches above my wrist. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time for any formal introduction as our first duty was bellowed by Pat.
‘Open the doors!’ he bellowed, as Custer’s cavalry lined up for some sort of charge. A minute or so later the same call was made, and Antony and I welcomed both the cavalry and the pioneers’ wagons into the fort. As the dust settled and the horses made their way to the back of the enclosure, Rod shook our hands and made an instant gesture of friendship.
‘If you want, I can kit you boys out properly,’ he suggested. ‘Just come round to my camp.’
‘Which one’s yours?’ Antony replied.
‘It’s that one over there,’ he said, pointing to what could have been one of five or six caravans and camper vehicles. ‘It has four flags, a tented area between the van and my outdoor kitchen, and there’s a giant buzzard sat on my camp’s sign…’
I interjected quickly. ‘We’re not really gonna miss it are we, Rod?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
The next stage of the reenactment was the meeting of the peace treaty council. Here, representatives of the Indians and the United States Army draft out and sign a deal in the very centre of the battlefield before each faction return to their respective camp. The treaty, in the show’s timeframe at least, lasts about ten minutes. The two opposing sides exchange signatures and hand shakes for spears and hand-to-hand combat in the show’s finale.
‘Wanna go down as part of the treaty party, you two?’ asked Pat. You didn’t have to ask us twice.
‘Yeah, sure. We can handle that. What do we have to do?’
‘Just stand there.’
‘Brilliant.’
Out of the fort and into the direct sunlight and intolerable heat, military promotions were arriving with increasing regularity. We began as badly dressed extras. Now we were badly dressed ‘treaty party/threshold protectorates’. At this rate one of us would be asked to be Custer by Saturday.
In actual fact, on a blisteringly hot day, the job of US treaty party was not an incredibly glamorous one. Antony, Pat, a few pioneers and I stood in a straight line directly facing the actors portraying Red Cloud and General Phillip Sheridan who led the negotiations for their respective sides. In the centre of the battlefield, on the only bit of raised land, stood a small table and beside it, a tribal translator would gesture the words of the Indian leader whilst the actual speech was read out by a narrator for the benefit of the audience. In reply, Sheridan would also move his hands as if explaining and a different, clearer announcer would voice his words. The whole interaction is pretty effective and very well orchestrated, but for me, the best part of the scene was our retreating march back to the fort, my return to my position by the gate and the shade it produced.
The final battle itself was more or less a non-starter. The main aim of the rehearsal was to check that people would know where to be, and that the sound system and narrators were in fine tune. Because it wasn’t an official show, the cavalry units for both sides were nowhere near full strength and so Antony and I simply ran out of the fort when we were instructed to do so, and fell to the ground when everybody else did. As we made our way back to the fort and then in the direction of our free lunch, Bob and Rod assured us that the real show’s battle would be a completely different experience and that we should prepare ourselves for a ‘proper attack’. We were going to be fine - Barbara had told us where the best sweet shop was and I was planning on buying enough to feed the entire tribe.
After a standard, but ultimately satisfying, lunch which included Sloppy Joes (a burger bap filled with shredded minced meat in a seasoned tomato sauce), some cookies and a side of potato salad; Antony and I began talking to our new friends some more about their role as reenactors. It turned out that both Rod and Bob were a couple of Custer’s Last Stand veterans. 2007 saw Rod’s ninth year at the reenactment and Bob’s fourth. Both loved taking part and their involvement was something that obviously meant a lot - especially for Rod, who lives eighty miles from Hardin and uses his annual holiday to make his yearly appearance at the show.
Our loud and resonant voices and English accents grabbed the attentions of a fellow reenactor – the only one without whom the show couldn’t continue. General George Armstrong Custer - or Mr. Rick Williams when not at such events - was an amateur reenactor who had begun his career in civil war reenactments in 1999. Because of his obvious resemblance to Custer, Rick had found himself playing the role for the past four years at Civil War reenactments over America. Like us, this year’s show was his first in Hardin. His explanation as to why he decided to come all the way from Ohio to take part was similar to that of an actor who has chosen to star in a film alongside his childhood hero.
‘I’ve been doing this for a few years now and you don’t turn down an offer like this.’
The meeting with Rick didn’t last that long as he was quickly whisked away for interviews with newspapers, and to meet and greet fellow riders. Nevertheless, Rod invited him to his camp whenever he was available, and asked if Antony and I would like to join him for some post-rehearsal refreshments.
Rod had described his camp perfectly. There was indeed a stuffed buzzard that sat atop a homemade wooden sign with the words ‘Camp Wishah-Kudah-WunWun’ on the top plank, and ‘COMPANY L MESS’, ‘1ST SERGEANT JAMES BUTLER’, and ‘ORDERLY SERGEANT’ written beneath.
‘Wisha-Kudah-WunWun?’ I asked as Rod sat down to loosen his boots.
‘Yeah,’ he chuckled. ‘I wish I coulda’ won one. It’s just a joke.’
As Rod stepped into his camper van to look for clothes which would befit two fort soldiers better than our efforts, we were introduced to Rod’s wife June. June looked to be in her fifties, with long brown hair which reached her lower back. Oddly, she looked more at home in her 19th century pioneer outfit than in her everyday attire.
‘Here it is,’ shouted Rod as the door of his camper swung open, ‘My toy box.’
A wooden crate was placed on the ground and the cover removed. It was like no toy box I had ever seen. Instead of coloured building blocks and miniature cars, Rod’s box consisted of a collection of knives, holsters, belts and bullet shells, which he had amassed over his years as a military enthusiast. And boy, he takes enthusiasm to a whole new level. As well as holding down a steady job as an electrical supervisor, he and June run a second-hand collectibles and historical memorabilia store. Rod is the founder and curator of a memorial museum; and with the inclusion of his saddle (which he used before he retired as a member of the reenactment’s cavalry), his complete outfit was worth over $3,000.
As Rod rummaged around for things to make our costumes more fort soldiery (apparently it’s a word), Antony and I sat down as our host gave us an insight into his own military background. After only serving for seven years in the United States Army, Rod had risen to the rank of sergeant and his CV read like G.I. Joe’s. He was a paratrooper, a qualified armourer and survival expert, jumpmaster and gunner on the Redeye Air Defence Missile; he had served in divisions of the infantry, armoury and air cavalry units; and was a fully trained commando.
I know all this is because Rod loves to talk. Mention any conflict and Rod has a fact, anecdote, or, if you’re really lucky, a detailed account of the combatants and the weapons used around that time. Boring as this may sound, listening to the human military encyclopaedia was an absolute joy. His look, mannerisms and brilliant story-telling ability would endear him to children who would hang on his every word.
In the two hours we spent at the camp, we learnt about that at Rorke’s Drift the Zulus never did commend the Brit’s gallant defence of the outpost like the Michael Caine film would have you believe. We also discovered that Rod’s father was a friend of Ernest Hemingway, and that one of the camp’s flags – a star in the centre of a white rectangle on a red background – meant that Rod and June had a son overseas in the US military. Thankfully, the star was blue and not golden. Gold would have meant that their son had been killed whilst serving in Afghanistan.
At 5 o’clock, Antony and I decided it was time we should be leaving. We felt we had overstayed our welcome, but Rod and June didn’t agree.
‘We’ve been known to feed everyone on this site,’ shouted June as she pottered away in the kitchen. ‘You’re welcome back anytime.’
‘We have to get some candy anyway, Rod,’ we replied. ‘Better go now before the shop closes.’
We said our goodbyes and were instructed by Rod to visit Fort Custer General Store where we could not only buy some sweets, but the correct insignia for our $5 kepis.
Fort Custer General Store was like no other shop I had ever entered. It was a strange mix of souvenirs, tacky play items and food essentials. To make the experience a little stranger, a small boy was following us around the store, hiding behind the end of each aisle and staring at us unflinchingly.
At the checkout, we found the correct insignia for our hats. Forty or so different types of sweets were available, ranging from the usual sours and liquorice to flavours based on soft drinks like root beer and Dr. Pepper.
‘Don’t get the root beer ones, mate – it just tastes like the stuff you get at the dentist,’ I warned Antony.
The sweets were served to us by Christian, the child who had been hiding from us. We opted for a selection, so the Indian children would definitely find something they liked, which would hopefully allow us to keep both our trousers and our dignity.
‘Why don’t you ask them?’ said the woman behind the counter to Christian after he had whispered something into her ear. ‘He wants to know where you’re from,’ she said.
‘England,’ we replied.
‘He thought you were from Australia.’
‘Australia!’ we exclaimed, not so much because of his inaccuracy, but because by the way he looked at us we thought he may have believed us to be from another planet.
We left the shop, and strangely enough, so did Christian, picking up a motorised scooter from the shop next door to the store.
‘I got this for my birthday,’ he explained.
‘Um…that’s nice,’ replied Antony. ’You like it?’
‘Yep.’
‘Right.’
‘Bit lazy don’t you think? You don’t even have to use your feet,’ I added.
‘Yep.’
As Christian shot off back in the direction of the store, Antony and I made our escape. At our car, we could see Christian in the distance. By this time he had turned his scooter around and was eager to get a last glimpse of us by any means necessary. As we made our way out of Hardin, I could see in my rear view mirror Christian leaning further and further out from behind a street corner for a better view of the aliens and their spaceship.
The following day, Antony and I arrived at Rodney’s camp complete with two toy cap guns we had bought from Toys ‘R’ Us in Billings. Thinking Rod could supply us with a small holster in which to hold our plastic firearms, I asked if his ‘toy box’ contained such helpful items. Unfortunately, asking a man like Rod for a holster for your pathetic toy gun is like joining a group of Hell’s Angels and arriving for your initiation on a moped. Instead of asking us if we were actually serious about our choice of weaponry, Rod looked up at us and said something we definitely were not expecting.
‘Who’s the best arm wrestler?’ Believing he was about to clear his camp table and get June to officiate, embarrassing me in front of Bob and Rick who were a matter of feet away and already in costume, I decided I would allow Antony to take up Rod’s challenge. Antony, however, was already pointing in my direction.
‘He is.’
This would be my first ever international arm wrestle. Rod turned away and instead of clearing a space for the battle, headed into his camper van and came out holding some sort of rifle.
‘Rich, have you ever seen an 1866 Sharps Carbine Conversion?’ he asked.
‘I think we both know the answer to that, Rodney,’ I replied, thinking he was either referring to the rifle or constructing his sentences by selecting words from the dictionary entirely at random.
‘It’s quite heavy, so you’d better have it,’ said Rod as he handed me the rifle and the shoulder strap to which it was attached.
As well as the rifle, Rod had laid out entirely new outfits for Antony and me, and we were asked to enter Rod’s camper van so we could change.
I shall now attempt to explain what we were wearing and use the appropriate name, followed by a standard explanation for those of you whose knowledge of historical military uniforms is not in the same league as Rod’s. Accompanying my original trainers and navy trousers were a model 1866 Conversion Sharps Carbine (a rifle), a model 1855 Carbine sling (a belt to which the rifle was attached), a prairie belt (a belt in which rifle shells were kept), a kepi/forage with cavalry sabres and regimental number (my hat with correct insignia), and a bowie knife (a Crocodile Dundee ‘that’s not a knife, that’s a knife’ kind of knife). Rod had also provided me with a thick white shirt and a navy waist jacket. This made me glad I had the rifle. Without it, my costume made me look as if I was more likely to ask you for your train ticket than defend a fort from some Native Americans.
Antony’s kit had more of a Wild West feel to it. It consisted of a model 1858 Remington Percussion Revolver (a gun), a Model 1860 flap holster (a holster), a buckskin jacket with fringe (a coat with frilly bits on the pockets and seams), campaign hat (similar to a cowboy hat) and another Crocodile Dundee special. Antony was also given a pair of boots which rounded off his outfit perfectly. Unfortunately, no such boots were available in a size 14 for me to wear.
As the five of us made our way to the fort, Bob explained that the director had decided to change the show’s ending so the battle took place directly in front of the audience instead of several hundred yards away on the hillside. As well as that, the show’s committee had managed to persuade a descendent of one of the battle’s Indian chiefs to open the show and speak on behalf of his people. To be honest, when he picked up the microphone and began to speak to the 2,000-strong crowd, I wasn’t sure if he was speaking English or some sort of a Native American dialect. To Antony and me it sounded more like the drunken ramblings of a man at chucking out time. Unfortunately, these were not the only changes that had been made.
Blasting out of the stand’s speakers was a song which I had never heard before even though it was originally released in 1984. It was with great dismay that Antony and I learnt we were to be subjected to it at least three more times if we were to fulfil our duties and take part in all four shows. Lee Greenwood’s ‘God Bless the U.S.A.’ is a bona fide song of patriotism, aimed at evoking the raw emotions of every proud American and kindling their passion in the virtues of the flag. And, in my opinion, it is complete and utter tripe. And it’s not because it makes everyone who is in its audible proximity stand still from jingoism (as if the rules on musical statues had been reversed), but due to the song’s ghastly and laughable lyrics. If you wish to find out how truly terrible the song is, can you please make sure you obtain the single by some sort of illegal means. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I knew I was responsible for adding a single penny to one of Mr. Greenwood’s royalty cheques.
Following the ear-wrenching ‘music’ Bob released a fearsome shot from a cannon which stood outside the fort’s gates – shocking the audience and scaring the hell out of Antony and me as it wasn’t used in rehearsal. The show followed the same pattern as the rehearsal with the exception that Antony and I had been relieved of our treaty party responsibilities, and that all the fort soldiers who hadn’t bothered to turn up for the previous day’s practice run were now present. With Bob’s wife Jill now alongside Rod in the lookout post, the fort was at full-strength.
Soon the time came for the attack. Rod helped me load my rifle as well as handing Antony five blanks to store in his six-barrel revolver. In each show, the fort soldiers have two chances to use their firearms: once when Custer makes his initial charge to save the pioneers, and once in the final battle. As we opened the gates to allow Custer’s cavalry unit through, I dropped to one knee and fired off a shot. Antony’s gun simply clicked after he managed to find its only empty chamber.
When the cavalry returned, and the treaty scene had finished, Custer and his men made their way to the nearby hillside from where the final attack is launched. As Pat informed us, we had a matter of minutes until we too had to descend onto the field of battle. Bob loaded his revolver and talked us through what he thought we should know.
‘You ready?’ he asked. ‘Be careful out there.’
‘I’ve got some candy. It’s all good, Bob,’ I replied rather smugly.
‘I’m not talking about the kids. I’m talking about the rattlesnakes.’
‘The what!?’ Antony and I shouted in horror.
‘Rattlesnakes. Some were spotted earlier out there.’
‘Just remember they can strike a distance equal to a third of its length,’ added Rod.
‘Thanks,’ I replied sarcastically. ‘But I’ll be too busy running to get a ruler out and make sure I’m a safe distance away.’
‘Yeah, if these people think I’m going to be lying still whilst a snake is trying to bite me, they can piss off,’ added Antony.
Rod and Bob chuckled to themselves as if to palm off our serious concerns for simple pre-war banter.
‘Oh, and you’d better keep hold of that stuff. Those kids’ll take anything,’ Rod warned.
‘Get ready, people!’ shouted Pat as we made our way to the side of the fort. ‘Custer’s attacking!’
‘Pat?’ I asked. ‘What happens if no Indian actually kills me? Do I just walk around for a bit?’
‘If no one kills you, commit suicide.’
Antony and I were both nervous. In the centre of the battlefield were dozens of horses which had created a whirling of dust and smoke from the blanks being fired. And it was into the melee of ferocious activity that we were expected to run.
‘CHARGE!’ bellowed Pat as he sprinted past me, before falling to the ground just yards from the fort.
‘I’m following you, Bob,’ I shouted as we darted across the plain and into the fray. After a jog of about 100 yards I aimed my rifle high into the sky, as I was advised, and released my one and only shot before coming to the realisation that Antony and I were the only remaining soldiers yet to be killed. Just then, totally unexpectedly, an Indian on horseback raised an axe above his head, wielding it at mine. He obviously missed on purpose as to not kill me in reality, but I knew this was my time to ‘die’. Having previously decided how I was going to act out my death, I slowly fell to my knees before slumping face first into the ground, making sure I landed atop of Rod’s rifle. Antony, however, didn’t have the same luxury of choosing his own demise and was unceremoniously introduced to the soil by a dump tackle of which Jonah Lomu would have been proud.
When all army units had met their fate, the Indians gathered Custer’s flag and returned to the centre of the battlefield where the announcers explained more of the story and the repercussions of the war. This was the signal for the Indian children to leave their camps and begin their pillage. All of the warnings I been given about the ferocity and ruthlessness of the children’s plunder were greatly exaggerated.
‘Do you have any candy?’ a young girl who had approached me on her own asked politely.
‘Yes. You can have the whole bag if you want,’ I replied kindly, before realising what a horrible and foolish mistake I had made.
I had two pockets on the front of my waist jacket in which I could have stored the sweets. I could have even strapped the bags to the back of my belt or rifle strap. Instead, I was stupid enough to place them inside my right-trouser pocket – a place where it was surely morally and ethically wrong to invite a young girl’s hand.
Although we had been instructed to stay perfectly still once we had been killed, I decided it was wise if I were to employ a bit of posthumous nerve twitching – the kind that loosens the position of a bag of sweets from out of your pocket and onto the ground.
After the American national anthem is heard, all troops rise from the dead and the audience are allowed to walk onto the battlefield and converse with members of the cast.
This is where Rod is in his element. It’s the part of the show you can tell he has waited a year for. Antony and I simply skulked around hoping no one would ask us anything and uncover our pitiful knowledge of everything we were wearing.
Ten minutes after the end of the performance, Ant and I made our return to Rod’s camp and were shortly followed by June and Bob. It was about half an hour before Rod and Rick joined the group.
‘You love it don’t you, Rodney?’ asked Antony.
‘I do indeed,’ he replied. ‘Absolutely love it.’
After just one performance, it appeared as if Rick wasn’t too enthralled with his role of Custer. He had only fifteen minutes at our camp before he had to take part in newspaper and television interviews, and he was appearing in Hardin’s street parade the following day. Custer was a wanted man on the battlefield, and off it everyone wanted a piece of Rick. Rod wasn’t too happy either. At the rehearsal, we were asked to remain ‘dead’ during the national anthem, and resurrect after it had finished. Rod and many of the fellow reenactors were not in favour of such an act.
‘I want to stand for the anthem,’ he declared. ‘I’ve had a word with Pat and he says they are going to play Taps (a bugle song similar to the Last Call) tomorrow and then we rise for the anthem.’
All in all, the show went very well and was only ruined by two helicopters which passed overhead, ruining the authentic 19th century Montana feel. What was strange, however, was that in our mock battle, not a single Native American ended the performance on the ground. Surely that can’t be right? To find out, and because two performances were booked for the following day, Antony and I decided that now was the best time to witness the actual site of the battle. We wanted to discover just how accurate our reenactment was to what really took place 131 years ago. Rod and June were kind enough to invite us to eat with them in the evening and told us that the battlefield was well worth a visit.
‘It’s very good, Rich,’ stated Rod. ‘Best of all, I think it’s free.’
For ten dollars, the public are allowed to explore the grounds of Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument, and at over 750 acres, the area’s vastness is overwhelming. Along the luscious and undulating hills, white marble markers signify where both soldiers and Indians fell on June 25th, 1876. And they are peppered everywhere, too numerous to count. Historical estimations put the battle’s length at less than thirty minutes, in which time over 400 men lost their lives and 200 more were wounded. On the brow of the hill where Custer and his men drew their final breaths, and where the concentration of markers is at its most dense, an obelisk commemorates the fallen soldiers. Only 500 yards away is Custer National Cemetery, home to the remains of almost 5,000 people: not only the battle’s 7th Cavalry unit but also the dead of more modern conflicts. Despite the cemetery’s name, General George Armstrong Custer’s body was re-interred and taken to be buried 1,500 miles west in New York.
The park’s visitor centre and museum contained many interesting facts about the battle as well as some rather strange exhibits, not least the glass cabinet that contained a razor and bar of soap once used by Custer. Other facts that caught my eye including the fact that many of the Indians actually used better rifles in the battle than their adversaries; Custer and Crazy Horse were both aged 36 at the time of the Little Bighorn; and five months after their defeat, the American Army won the rather interestingly named Dull Knife Fight. Before we made our way back to Hardin, I noticed a rather interesting display that depicted what nations were represented in Custer’s unit. Of the 793 enlisted men, 473 were born in America, 129 were Irish, and 127 were Germans. The remaining 64 were drawn from 14 other countries including the United Kingdom and two who were simply categorised as ‘at sea’.
Back at Camp Rodney, June and her husband were busy preparing the evening’s meal and we learnt that the committee weren’t best pleased with Antony – or as they put it – ‘the idiot with the cowboy hat.’ The reason for this was that when Antony ‘died’ and the Indian children had approached his ‘corpse’ for candy, they had also asked for any shells or military souvenirs. In his best attempts to inform them that what they were after didn’t belong to him, Antony had found himself lying on his side, gesticulating and casually conversing with the kids as if he was lying on a towel and chatting to friends at the beach.
In the evening, June and Rod’s antelope steak was the obvious cause of the camp’s sudden increase in popularity. We were joined by most of the fort crew including Bob, his wife, and Randy – one of the cavalry members. We all tried our best to keep Rod from dominating the conversation but his love of talking was too much. His ‘that-reminds-me-of-another-story’ finger was in constant use.
For nearly half an hour, Rod attempted to explain his pay and pension structure to the point where I don’t think even he understood, and Antony and I told our favourite jokes. After an hour or so, it became apparent that Montanans use North Dakotans and Texans like the English use the Irish as their subject of ridicule, and that Randy would only find a joke funny if there was a rude word in the punchline. Several hours passed before we decided to leave, and because Rod was such a good storyteller, no one noticed the sun set below the rural horizon and his distinctive face become just a silhouette in front of a gas camplight.
The weather report predicted temperatures as high as 102º, so it was with great relief that as we arrived at Rod’s camp, the overcast conditions had lowered the temperature to the late 80s.
‘Glad you could make it,’ said Rod sarcastically.
‘Plenty of time, Rodney,’ replied Antony, as we made our way into the camper van to get changed. We had less than an hour before the first of the day’s two shows.
Back in the fort, normal service was resumed. Lee Greenwood made everyone stand perfectly still, the Indian descendent continued his ramblings, and Bob shocked everyone with his cannon fire – quite literally scaring the shit out of Antony who was in the portaloo at the time. Instead of helicopters ruining the historic authenticity, this show had to deal with a passing train, which took almost ten minutes for its four forbidding diesel engines to pull its 80 carriages. Trains are requested to stop for performances, and as many in the fort complained the point, I was picking bits of spiky thorns out of my leg. Because I was wearing trainers and not boots, they had managed to attach themselves to my sock. As I removed my shoes, Bob noticed me plucking them from my sock.
‘Fuck tale?’ he shouted.
‘I beg your pardon, Bob.’ I asked, thinking he hated them more than I did.
‘Foxtails. They’re called Foxtails.’
It quickly became apparent to Antony and me that Rod wasn’t the biggest fan of Pat, and would take no notice of the stage manager when an order was shouted. I may not be a brilliant lip reader but I’ve watched enough football matches to know when someone is mouthing the words ‘Fuck off, Pat’. I later learned that Rod was asked to be the stage manager in only his second year, a job he accepted before deciding to step down because it took the fun out of the reenactment.
Minutes before the final battle, everyone prepared themselves with the exception of Jill who decided she would remain in the fort. Antony, still aware of the previous day’s warning from the committee and the spear tackle he received from his ‘killer’, played things safe by quickly taking a shot and falling to the floor just yards into his battle sprint. I, on the other hand, managed to attract the attention of a warrior who leapt from his horse, and tackled me to the ground before taking a knife from his pocket and pretending to thrust it into my stomach.
With a change to the ending in place, all soldiers remained on the floor for Taps but rose to observe the national anthem. Before Antony and I could escape the post-show interaction with the audience, a member of the crowd and his son approached me and pointed at my rifle.
‘What kind of gun is that?’ he asked.
‘It’s a 1970…no…hang on.’ I replied, trying to remember its name. ‘Rod! What’s this called again?’
As he was only standing a matter of feet from me, Rod came to my rescue and informed the father and son that it was an 1866 Sharps Carbine Conversion. I needed to remember that.
Back at the camp, post-show conversations always began with how you died, and Rick, playing the most wanted part of Custer, always had the best stories.
‘I was attacked by a young guy at first,’ he told us. ‘So as I pinned him down and pretended to punch him, his big brother spotted me and hit me with such force that I was thrown to the floor. I think I’m getting too old for this.’
The two-hour break between the end of the matinee and the beginning of the evening shows gave Rod more time to tell stories and, this time, complain about the state of journalism in the country. With a degree in journalism myself, I thought I’d best keep quiet. Because the reenactment featured within its pages, Rick had a copy of the local newspaper in his hand, and Rod’s point was instantly proven. Not only had the Billings Gazette used the word ‘losingest’ in one of its front page headlines, but they highlighted the reenactment’s international appeal by including a quote from 63-year-old John Jeffries, an Englishman who was sat in the audience! All he did was sit in the stand. There wasn’t even a mention for the two threshold protectorates who hailed from that fair nation, and who had already died for someone else’s country twice.
In the second of the day’s shows, I was invited to join the treaty party and with Rod leading the march, I walked out of the fort. Rod took this role very seriously and you could tell he had once had military experience. He would shout things like ‘about turn!’ and ‘about face’, and because I didn’t know what either of them meant, I simply did whatever everyone else under his command did.
After the battle - in which I had to commit suicide as I couldn’t find a single person to kill me - I saw some members of the audience making their way towards me. I grasped my rifle, constantly reminding myself of its name as not to make the same mistake as I had made earlier in the afternoon. ‘1866 Sharps Carbine Conversion. 1866 Sharps Carbine Conversion.’
‘Hey,’ remarked one of two burly-looking men in baseball caps. ‘What type do you call that?’
With an air of smugness about me, I pulled the gun down from my shoulder and lay it across my two open hands. I may not have had a single line in the show, but this was my cue. My time to deliver. ‘This…’ I said with a smile on my face, ‘…is an 1866 Sharps Carbine Conversion.’
‘Oh yeah?’ the other replied. ‘What calibre?’
Shit.
It was surprising that after three shows and two days, it had taken until the Saturday night for Rick, Bob and Rod to make Antony and me try our hand at shooting some guns. After all, we were in Montana – a state which according to Rod and Bob had no rules, and even the speed limit was just ‘a suggestion.’ To begin with, Bob showed Antony that a blank could easily dent a can from close range. Bob then produced an 1860 Henry Rifle and an 1873 Colt Peacemaker (which I’ve always thought to be a stupid name for a gun) which he had used in the reenactment, and asked Antony and me to try them out.
‘Where should I aim?’ asked Antony.
‘Anywhere towards that hill,’ Bob replied.
Antony and I continued to blast holes in the hillside before we noticed that due to the kick of the gun most of our shots were missing the bank completely and continuing over the brow of the hill.
‘What’s over there?’ enquired Antony as he turned to Bob with gun in hand, making him duck with fear.
‘Nothing much,’ he replied. ‘Only the freeway.’
Rod, who by this time must have been incensed by no one listening to him, decided to teach me a lesson by handing me my 1866 Sharps Carbine Conversion and a real bullet for it, instead of the blanks I’d had all day.
‘Try this out,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I replied, knowing full well what little impact a blank had when shot from the rifle.
Unbeknown to me, Rod had handed me a full bore shell instead of the regular shell. Apparently, this was a trick played on new recruits when entertainment was hard to come by on Western posts. The change make a lot of difference.
Holding the gun up to my shoulder and aiming at nothing in particular so long as it was green and unpopulated, I squeezed the trigger gently. An almighty blast produced smoke from the barrel, another shot fired toward the freeway, and an instant and undesirable pain ignited in my right shoulder. As I turned around clutching my collar, which was already beginning to bruise, the rest of the camp simply laughed at my misfortune, revelling in the delight of a Brit biting off more than he could chew.
On the night time drive back to Billings, Antony and I witnessed our first piece of major road kill: a dead deer in the middle of the road. As quickly as it appeared in our headlights, it was under the wheels of our 4-wheel-drive Suzuki, sending us a foot or so out of our seats. As I regained control of the car, we commented to each other about who would leave such a large animal carcass in the middle of the road. It wasn’t until we returned to the motel that it dawned on us. With our erratic and inaccurate gunfire earlier in the evening, it may have been us who killed it.
On our arrival for the final day’s reenactment, Rod and Rick stood side-by-side and Rod began to read from a piece of paper in his hand.
‘Private Richard Smith. Having distinguished himself by his perseverance and dedication to his duty, while serving as a trooper in Company L, 7th U.S. Cavalry during the 2007 reenactment of the Battle of Little Bighorn, is hereby awarded the rank of Honorary Corporal, and is entitled to all the privileges therein, and to expound at great length on his exploits, without censure. Given this 26th day of June 2007.’
Both he and Rick shook my hand before handing me the certificate. Antony then received the same treatment.
‘Um…thanks, Rod.’ What else do you say to that?
The final show was the best yet, with the exception of a car alarm resonating through some of the early parts. As Antony and I ran into battle, you could tell that neither of us wanted it to end. By the look of it neither did the Indians, as I had to shout a request to a passing warrior for him to kill me.
Back at the camp, Antony and I handed out presents to Bob, June and Rick. Due to his love of British sitcoms, we gave Bob and Jill something equally as British: a croquet set, and to June, a glass decorative paraffin lamp. To Rod, a man who not only bought military clothing but made his own, we presented a British Bulldog belt buckle (complete with British flag reverse) that we had purchased from the Fort Custer General Store. He promised to wear it – or at least make a belt that would accommodate such an item – when he returned home.
Bob and Jill decided that beating the Native Americans and the horse boxes out onto the road was the best bet and after a parting hand shake, hit the road, leaving Antony and me with Rod and June.
‘Thanks for everything, June, you’ve been great,’ I said, as I extended my right hand. June ignored it and gave both Antony and me a hug.
‘It’s been great having you. A real pleasure,’ she replied.
Rod gave each of us a firm hand shake, which I couldn’t help but change into a quick hug and pat on the back.
And why not?
To Antony and me, Rod was more than our superior. He and June were perfect hosts, and extended arms of friendship with unquestioning generosity. For the past four days, Antony and I were dressed and fed by them, and now, in the middle of a field amongst the non-fitting background of horses’ refusal to enter their boxes and the constant drone of departing vehicles, it was time to say goodbye. It was a wonderful start to our American trip. We hoped a trend of meeting pleasant and welcoming people would begin to develop. It may have been a fake battle, but Bob and Rod were true compatriots, and there were no other people that we would rather have had by our side.