The order came at midday, carried by an orderly who had pushed his horse hard across the broken ground. It was from General Custer, and it was brief: We have found a large village. Hasten your pace. Bring up the packs.

I was Lieutenant Winfield Scott Edgerly, riding with the battalion commanded by Major Marcus Reno on the morning of June 25, 1876. We were men of the Seventh Cavalry, and we had been ordered to advance toward a native encampment along the Little Big Horn River in the unforgiving plains of Montana. The ground beneath us was cracked and brittle, a reflection of the tension that hung heavy in the air. We had no idea, as we read those words, that this day would go down in history as one of the most devastating defeats for the United States military—what many would call Custer’s Last Stand.

The events leading to that disastrous outcome were a mixture of tactical misjudgments, communication failures, and a fatal underestimation of the strength of the Native American forces gathered at the river’s edge. What we saw in the aftermath revealed not just the power of the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors, but also the arrogance and overconfidence that doomed Custer’s command. The morning had begun in an uneasy calm. By 10:00 a.

m. , we were positioned roughly fifteen miles from the sprawling native encampment. From the hilltops, Custer and his scouts—Crow and Ree men who had long served the Cavalry—scanned the horizon, calculating the size of the village below. It was immense, larger than anything we had anticipated.

Custer’s plan had been a dawn raid the following morning, when surprise would be on our side. That plan was abruptly discarded. A small group of Native scouts had spotted our movements, and Custer believed the element of surprise was lost. In his characteristic boldness, Custer ordered the immediate advance.

He assumed, as many in the Army did, that the sight of the Seventh Cavalry would send the Native warriors fleeing. He could not have been more wrong. What we now know is that this encampment was not a vulnerable group of families. The village held some of the most formidable leaders and warriors of the Great Plains, including Sitting Bull, whose vision days earlier had prophesied a great victory, and Crazy Horse, whose tactical genius would outmaneuver Custer’s fragmented forces.

Custer divided our regiment into four battalions. Major Reno was to lead an attack from the south. Captain Frederick Benteen was sent to the left flank to block any escape. Captain McDougall guarded the pack train.

Custer himself led five companies—around three hundred men—on a parallel route to Reno. His goal was to catch the village between these forces, driving them into disarray. I rode with Benteen’s battalion, following orders to sweep the ridges in search of any stragglers. The terrain slowed our progress.

We encountered a series of hills, each one checked by scouts, but no sign of the enemy appeared. By the time we intersected Reno’s trail around midday, the situation had shifted dramatically. That was when the orderly arrived with Custer’s message. There was a sense of urgency, yet confusion lingered.

Reno had already engaged the village by the time we arrived. As we moved closer to the Little Big Horn, gunfire rang out in the valley below. I could see men fleeing up the bluffs to the east, crossing the river to escape. Initially we assumed they were chasing the retreating Indians.

But the truth was much more alarming. These were our own men. Reno had been forced to retreat after an ill-fated charge into the village. His battalion, overwhelmed by the sheer number of warriors, had suffered heavy casualties and was now in desperate need of reinforcement.

We joined him on the bluffs, where the wounded lay scattered, some bleeding out as they called for water that was nowhere to be found. From the heights of the bluff, we could see dust rising in the distance—evidence of another fierce battle to the north. We could hear gunfire echoing across the plains, coming from the direction where Custer’s command had last been seen. My commanding officer, Colonel Weir, approached me.

“What should we do? ” he asked. Without hesitation, I urged that we move to Custer’s aid. Though orders had not been given, we were agreed.

Together with D Troop, we mounted up. As we advanced toward Custer’s last known position, the scene began to shift. Native warriors appeared on the horizon, moving quickly to intercept us. We veered off, taking a parallel course to the north, where we encountered more troops under Benteen and Captain Godfrey.

The warriors opened fire as we reached a nearby bluff, forcing us into a defensive posture. For the next half hour we exchanged fire, holding our ground until Reno called for a retreat. The sounds of gunfire from Custer’s position had fallen silent. The following morning brought grim news.

General Terry’s column arrived with reinforcements, and it was then we learned of Custer’s fate. His entire command had been wiped out, annihilated by the combined forces of the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors. As we descended into the battlefield, the sight before us was horrifying. Custer’s men lay scattered in the dust, their bodies strewn across the hillsides, many stripped of their uniforms.

The officers had fallen where they led, with Lieutenants Calhoun and Crittenden still in a skirmish line. Colonel Keogh’s body was found near the hill where Custer made his final stand, his men having attempted to retreat. Custer’s body, oddly, was left intact, unlike many of his men who had been mutilated. His brother Tom Custer, however, had been brutally disfigured—a sign of the warriors’ deep animosity.

It was a curious and haunting detail that Custer himself had been spared this fate. We found him lying near his other brother, Boston Custer, and his nephew Reed. Nearby, we came upon a native burial ground: two tepees containing the remains of warriors who had fallen in battle. They were dressed and tied to poles, an honor reserved for those who had died heroically.

The ponies that had served them in life lay encircled around the camp, another mark of respect. These customs, unfamiliar to me, spoke volumes of the reverence these people held for their dead. As I reflect on those days, the weight of what we witnessed grows heavier. What we had thought would be a swift victory turned into a staggering defeat.

Custer’s overconfidence, his decision to split his forces, and his underestimation of the Native warriors led to one of the greatest military disasters in American history. Yet I cannot help but admire the warriors who fought that day. They were not simply defending their village. They were defending a way of life that had sustained their people for generations.

While we buried our dead, they had won a victory that would reverberate through history. The battle may have been lost for the US Army, but for the Native tribes it was a moment of triumph, a reminder of their strength and resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. Winfield Scott Edgerly’s account provides a vivid and reflective perspective on the chaotic aftermath of Custer’s Last Stand. Through his eyes, we see both the tactical failures that led to the annihilation of Custer’s command and the cultural significance of the battle for the Native American tribes.

His reflections remind us that this was not merely a clash of military forces, but a deeper struggle for survival, identity, and respect on both sides.