Fort Douglas was founded in 1866 by California-Nevada volunteers ordered to Utah to guard the overland mail routes. Situated on the city's east bench above the University of Utah, it offers a commanding view of the valley.
In the 1800s, soldiers from Fort Douglas participated in skirmishes with Indians and were a main factor in the development of mining in the state. At the turn of the century and in the 1900s, soldiers trained here for the Spanish-American War and both world wars. In later years, it has served mainly as headquarters for local reserve units.Until recently, I had never been on the grounds of Fort Douglas. I pictured it as a bunch of old buildings above the U. Then, driving by one day, I decided to look at it more closely. I swung my car up the hill and instantly found myself in a different world.
It was an odd mixture of history and military function. Many of the old buildings, built from red sandstone quarried from nearby canyons, seemed as pristine as when they were first constructed, some as early as the 1870s. Others, built of brick with wood trim, were functional and detailed, like pictures of buildings in Eastern cities at the time of the Civil War.
I noted the bars on one building and couldn't help but wonder who might have languished there in years past - and for what reasons. I stopped at the building housing the museum and looked at the photos and memorabilia of several decades, realizing that a whole culture within a culture dwelt here over the years.
In the middle of the fort, surrounded by trees, was a large square park with neatly mown grass - obviously the parade grounds.
I pictured the long lines of soldiers in military dress, the brusque commands and men turning in perfect unison, marching in square patterns around this flat of green above the city. I thought of the myriad emotions of men in those lines, wondering what Cuba would be like, missing young wives far away in other parts of the country, anxious about whether they would ever come home from Europe or the South Pacific.
A young woman in fatigues walked by. I wondered if she is from Utah - a reservist - or from somewhere else and stationed here. The world of the military is a whole culture in itself, with its own language. I am conscious, writing about it, that I will probably use the wrong words. Even though I was part of it for a brief time, it was never home; the words and rituals never felt comfortable, the dress and gestures never ceased to feel awkward.
Next to the museum is a small garden area with a bronze figure of Col. Patrick Conner, first commander of the fort, and several guns - cannons . . . whatever you call them - from different time periods. Plaques in front of each, in that sterile military wording, describe the guns.
The largest is one of the oldest:
U.S. 12 pounder, has bronze smooth bore. Can handle both shot and shell. Weight 1,231 pounds. Weight of projectile 12 pounds. Range 1,680 yards.
To the left, another, much more compact, with seats on either side of the barrel for men to ride on while it is being pulled, I assume, seems more menacing for its size:
Japanese 75 mm mountain gun Type 94. Used by the Japanese in China and Vietnamese Forces in Vietnam. A rugged light weapon. Can be horse or vehicle drawn, or dismantled into six pack-animal loads. Weight 1,200 pounds. Weight of projectile 15.8 pounds. Range 9,096 yards.
Nine-thousand ninety-six yards. That would be 27,288 feet. About 5 miles.
I picture how far 5 miles is and imagine a 15.8-pound shell traveling that far and what it would do when it got there.
I wonder about the people who manned this gun - specifically. Was it used by Japanese in Mongolia in the 1930s? Was it ridden by someone from Hanoi down the Ho Chi Minh Trail? Did the man who touched this knob have a wife and children? Did the shells coming out the end of this barrel kill anyone? How many?
At Fort Douglas the layers of history are thick and varied.
From a distance, I looked back at the row of cannons.
A young boy was walking past them. He stopped at the Japanese mountain gun and touched the front of the barrel, studying the rifling grooves on the inside lip.
Was he pondering the power of it or merely curious? It was hard to tell.
After a second he dropped his hand and, turning, continued on over the lawn, his white shirt a lively dot against the green.
Somehow, I will never understand the strange and terrible mystery of military things. I hope my children will never have cause to understand them even as much as I do.
Dennis Smith is an artist and writer living in Highland, Utah County.