by Tony Roberts
There were pitifully few of them left to carry on, the casualties having been so bad, but they were still going forward. Casey made sure Corrigan was over before setting off, close to Roosevelt’s right hand side. He saw Sergeant Holland leading another group until Holland span around in agony and fell aside. Now they were close, very close, and Spanish troops were getting up out of their dug-outs and running. This was not war, it was madness, and they wanted none of it.
Casey shot an enemy soldier who was aiming downhill, and the Spaniard fell backward, his chest a smear of red. Up again off his knee, and Casey urged his protesting legs to carry him just one little bit further.
Now he got to the top and jumped into an empty fire pit. The Spanish were retreating all along the crest, and he shot at a group, felling one. Corrigan landed next to him, his chest heaving. “Shit,” he gasped, “that was crazy as hell.”
“Sure was,” Casey nodded, wiping his brow. “They’re packing up. Come on, let’s help them on their way.”
Corrigan groaned but followed Casey out of the hole and the two ran to the far side and began shooting down at the fleeing Spanish, making their way down to a small lake that was sited halfway to the San Juan Heights.
Now the Spanish on those heights began to shoot at the American troops on the hill. “Get down, all of you!” Casey yelled in frustration. Christ! Didn’t they have any sense? The men flung themselves flat. “Return fire at ‘em!”
Roosevelt nodded his agreement from cover in a small trench. “Corporal Long, assume the place of the unfortunate Sergeant Holland.”
“Sir. Alright you lot, form a line, and return enemy fire. Our boys down there will need your help now.”
Colonel Wood arrived, his face reflecting pride and amazement they had actually taken the hill. “Lieutenant-Colonel,” he addressed Roosevelt, “that was well done! My God, you actually did it! My congratulations, sir.” The two shook hands.
Casey looked away. Yeah, they had done it, but at a terrible cost. Now the main attack was coming, and they had the perfect view of it. They lay down in a line and began shooting at the Spanish on the top of the hill.
Casey centered his sights on a distant Spanish soldier. The distance was about a thousand yards which was just about the limit of the American rifles, but Casey’s borrowed Mauser had a greater muzzle velocity and this gave it a greater range. So he lined up his sights very carefully on a Spanish soldier and shot. He kept a very careful watch on the man.
He missed. The ground in front of him erupted with a fountain of dirt. It was not set quite correctly. He adjusted his sights and drew in his breath and worked the bolt action, putting another round in the breech. He aimed carefully once more. By now the main attack was going ahead, and the Spanish troops were shooting downhill but not effectively. Most of their shots were missing.
Casey cursed their stupidity. “Damn fools have dug in on the actual crest,” he observed.
“Eh?” Corrigan looked at him in bafflement.
“You dig in on the military crest,” Casey waved a hand at them. “Which is slightly below the top. By doing what they’ve done, they’ve made it hard to hit anything until its much closer. Our troops can get up most of the way before they come into sight of the defenders.”
Corrigan nodded slowly. Made sense. He watched as Casey raised the barrel of his Mauser again and aimed carefully.
Casey held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked into his shoulder. He looked at the target and this time the soldier ducked as the bullet struck the edge of the fire pit behind him.
“Missed agin,” Corrigan grinned. “Call yesself a soldier?”
“Aw shut up,” Casey worked another round. “Just getting my aim. This time.”
The Spanish soldier was looking around nervously, wondering who the hell was picking on him. A comrade by his side was pointing at the top of Kettle Hill and the Spanish were beginning to shoot at the prone Rough Riders, but they didn’t know which one it was who was shooting.
Casey took careful aim, and fired for the third time. The Spanish solider clutched his throat and slumped back against the back of the pit, then slid down out of sight. “Gotcha!”
“Good shootin’,” another praised him.
Casey grinned. “Great rifle this. Better than our shit.”
“Think they’ll swap?” Corrigan asked.
“Yeah, but too late for this war,” Casey said. “But this Mauser is one helluva weapon. German made.”
“Better than American made?” another asked.
“German industry is some of the best in the world,” Casey said. “You want decent manufactured stuff, go German.”
Some of the men around him snorted. They were firmly of the opinion American made was best. Casey grinned to himself. Not being an American, he didn’t give a damn where something was made, only that it was the best.
Suddenly they saw the ridge erupt into a chaotic mass of fountains and impacts. Bullets hit everywhere, shattering posts, wooden obstacles, men, the blockhouse. The Rough Riders all peered down to the bottom of the hill at the American positions. The Gatling guns were peppering the crest with intense fire.
“Jesus!” Corrigan exclaimed. “That’s incredible!”
“Yeah,” Casey agreed, watching in fascination as the Gatlings swept back and forth, keeping the defenders’ heads down. If this was the future of war, his time as a soldier was surely coming to an end. How could men hope to survive in the face of machine-guns like this? It was brutal.
It only lasted for about six-seven minutes, but it was enough to give the Americans a chance to get up close to the top, and then the Gatlings fell silent and the attackers were at them. The Spanish had had enough and melted away, their morale shattered by the terrible effect of the machine-guns.
Roosevelt turned to Colonel Wood. “Sir, permission to clear the remaining defenders opposite us!”
Wood eyed the last of the Spanish positions on the northern edge of the heights, directly opposite, and nodded. Roosevelt waved to his men. “Alright boys, let’s go and win us the last of the victories today!” He ordered half of the men to remain behind and provide covering fire while the rest, eight hundred or so, ran down the slope towards the defenders.
Casey and Corrigan were with the attackers and they flew down the hill along with a whole line of blue and brown. They reached the bottom and before them was the small lake. Casey peeled off to the left, a large group following. Roosevelt was just ahead and Casey was determined to keep the officer in sight.
Shots came their way but the suppressing fire from Kettle Hill kept the Spanish cowering in their dug outs. Now they were climbing again, up the hill the Spanish were at the top of. More shots came at them but most went over their heads. Casey worked his legs hard, just behind Roosevelt, and they got closer and closer to the enemy positions.
Now they could see the defenders and rifles were pointing at them. Casey knelt and aimed quickly. His shot smashed into one Spanish soldier’s head, blowing it apart. He got up and plowed on after Roosevelt who was brandishing his pistol.
Corrigan was just ahead of Casey, his breathing coming out raggedly as he made the last few yards to the top. Some of the Spanish soldiers were running; others were doggedly sticking to their places and shooting at the exposed Americans. Casey ran hard to be alongside Roosevelt, but he saw two Spanish soldiers swing their rifles around to shoot the officer.
Quick as a flash the lieutenant-colonel blasted two shots from his pistol. The first missed one soldier who ducked out of sight below the parapet of his hole, but Roosevelt’s second shot struck the second soldier’s forehead, blowing his brains out.
Casey aimed at the foxhole the first soldier had ducked down in, and knew the man would now reappear to shoot at the commander. Sure enough he did, and Casey was ready. One squeeze of the trigger, and another Spanish soldier was dead. He leaped over the ready-made grave for the man and ran across the level ground at the top of the hill, coming to a halt as
he caught sight of the remaining defenders running for the city that lay before him.
Now they had secured the last of the heights before Santiago, the Spanish were vulnerable to anything the Americans decided to do. Casey looked around for Corrigan. His buddy was battling with a Spanish soldier who had decided to fight to the bitter end. Both had their knives out and were locked in a deadly embrace, straining at one another.
Casey saw a couple of other Rough Riders move to assist but he shook his head. It was Corrigan’s fight, and a right to fight. He wouldn’t appreciate anyone ‘helping’ him. If Corrigan looked like he was going to die, then that was another matter.
As Casey watched, his mind criticizing the clumsy moves but also telling his mouth to remain shut, Corrigan pushed just that little harder and overthrew his opponent who landed on his back and was winded. The American pinned him by the throat and went to skewer him but Casey intervened. “Alright, enough! He’s finished, you beat him, fair and square.”
Corrigan snarled. “Bastard deserves to die!”
“He’s a soldier, so are you. Respect that. We’re men of reason, not murderers.”
Corrigan eyed Casey, then nodded and got up, releasing the Spaniard’s throat. The man sat up, massaging his ache painfully, and regarded Casey. “Thank you, Senor. A fair fight which I lost,” he said in Spanish.
“You fought well,” Casey replied in the same tongue. “Now accept you are our prisoner.”
“Yes, I am.” He stood up, slightly resentfully, and brushed himself down. “So what happens now?”
“You’ll be turned over to my commander who’ll know where you are to be sent. I doubt you’ll be a prisoner for long. This fight is nearly over.”
Corrigan was allowed to take the man over to the officers who were gathering on a grassy rise nearby, looking over Santiago and obviously discussing the next moves. Casey picked up his canteen and took a long welcome draught; he always got thirsty after a battle.
As far as big battles went, this one hadn’t been too bad for him, but it had cost a lot of casualties. A frontal assault on prepared positions always did; he was just grateful the Spanish commander had been incompetent and not put the trenches slightly further forward, or else they may well not have got up the ridge.
Now would come the negotiations for the surrender of the city, something Casey would not be involved with, and he’d probably be sent on some boring tedious task to keep him and the others with him occupied until the leaders got some agreement thrashed out. He couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER TWELVE
With more going down with one sickness, ailment or other, and the Spanish stalling for some way out of the fix they were in, there were other duties that needed doing now the fighting was mostly over. One was to take supplies back and forth from the depots, and Casey volunteered to go to the coast near Siboney to fetch more medical supplies from the landing area.
As they marched down the Camino Real, now a mish-mash of mud, trampled undergrowth and freshly-cut logs, Corrigan grinned at his buddy. “I know why you put your name down to do this.”
“Which is?”
Corrigan chuckled and glanced at the sweat-soaked backs of the men in front of them. There were six of them, with Casey as the NCO in command of the party. “Maria, that cute little Spanish girl.”
Casey smiled. “Partly, yes, but I want to go check on The Kid, too. You said they were shipping him Stateside, so I want to find out if he was sent back. When the captain said he wanted men to go fetch medical supplies, it had to be from the hospital. Good opportunity to check on The Kid, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, guess so,” Corrigan shrugged. “And it ain’t much of a detour to Sevilla, is it? In fact, its on this road.”
“Yeah. Think we ought to rest there, don’t you think?” Casey said, trying not to smile.
Corrigan pushed him on the shoulder. “You old rogue. You want a piece of her agin, don’tcha?”
“I want to make sure she’s safe,” the eternal mercenary said loftily.
One or two of the others looked around and smirked.
The trek through the jungle was hot and sweaty, and they had to step aside frequently as more men came up carrying equipment from the coast. Finally, around noon, they got to the village and pointed out the fence they had built the other day. It was standing proud, untouched. Casey had a nice memory of Maria standing by its side.
He waved the men to break out and take a lunch. He walked along the main road, rifle slung over one shoulder, and located the house the family lived in, set back one block from the dirt track that was seeing far more traffic than it had ever before.
He knocked on the door and after a short wait, it opened slightly and a face peered around the edge at him. “Senor?” It looked like the mother.
Casey took off his hat. In fluent Spanish he asked whether Maria was there.
The woman’s face clouded. “She’s not seeing anyone. Thank you, Senor, but you must leave.”
Casey was puzzled. It wasn’t like Maria to stay indoors, from the little he knew of her. “Oh, I see. Well, please pass on my compliments. I’m Casey Long, the one who built the fence at the rear.”
“Oh, you’re the Americano Maria spoke of?” The woman looked torn for a moment. She looked behind her into the house, and then two small figures came running. “Senor Long?” one of the boys, Carlos, greeted him.
“Carlos, Tiago. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, but Maria’s been hurt.”
Casey now snapped into a more business-like posture. This was beginning to sound bad. He looked at the mother. “What happened?”
The woman gave in and waved him in. Casey thanked her and was led to a darkened room off to the side of the main passageway at the end. It wasn’t a big house, and made of wood, and it smelled of damp. It was a bedroom, and was Maria’s. She lay in a small cot-like bed, her face pale with her two eyes like dark smudges. Bruising covered her face.
Casey was allowed to kneel by the bedside. The mother told Maria who it was who had come to see her, before ushering out the two youngsters. “Maria,” Casey said gently. “It’s me.”
She slowly turned her head. “Hello,” she whispered. “My valiant protector.” It was said with more than a hint of bitterness.
Casey wasn’t dumb. It was clear what had happened. “Who did it?”
“Does it matter? They did what they did and that’s the end of it.”
“Not to me it isn’t. If they did this to you, they could do it to another. Who, and where are they?”
Maria sighed. “I was punished for befriending an American. They called me a whore, and took me like one. Three of them. They live in the village, but they fled once they had finished their – pleasure.”
Casey touched her hand lightly, half expecting her to pull it away, but she didn’t. He grasped it more firmly and squeezed it. “You’re safe now, with your family. They’ll look after you.”
She nodded and resumed her vacant gazing at the ceiling. She didn’t say any more, and Casey knew it would be better to let her be. Her mother returned and Casey left her to look after the young woman. The one he wanted to speak to now was the father, and he was in the kitchen sitting at a rickety table, a bitter expression on his face.
“Ah, so its you,” he said, spying the big man. “This is all because of you.”
“No its not,” Casey snapped. “I didn’t encourage those lowlifes to do what they did. The responsibility is all theirs, and now the responsibility of doing something about it is mine.”
“And what do you think you can do, American?” he said sourly. “They know the jungle; you don’t. They’ll stay hidden from you until this war is over, then they’ll return.”
“I’ll find them and mete out justice. My justice, my way.”
“They are people I’ve known for all their lives,” he said forcefully. “Their families live here. There will be consequences and you’ll be gone soon and we’ll have to live with whatever you do forev
er.”
Casey looked into his eyes. “And what of Maria? I detest people who do this kind of thing. They are not men, not even civilized beings. They’re scum, sick dogs that need to be put down.”
“We can do nothing; the families of those beasts are bigger and more important here.”
“How do you know? They may be ashamed at what their sons have done. Have you even asked them? No. I always say its better to live one day as a lion, rather than a hundred years as a sheep. Just tell me where they are and I’ll take care of those bastards.”
The father stared into the bottom of his bottle of alcohol. His pride had been hurt by the assault on his daughter, and his inability to do anything about it.
Casey leaned on the table over him. “Then tell me which families they are. I’ll get out of them where they have gone, and I’ll rip their houses to pieces doing it.”
The older man shook his head. “No – please. Oh, very well. They are Jaime Rodriguez, Santiago Hidalgo and Juan Menendez. They are all big young men and they are members of the Cuban rebellion.”
“Then why, tell me, did they do this if we’re on the same side?”
The father covered his eyes. “Jaime is betrothed to Maria.”
“Maria said nothing about this!” Casey snapped.
“No – she, ah, resisted the betrothal. While she was in Santiago Jaime could do nothing, but once she was back here he tried to persuade her to change her mind. When he found out she had been friendly towards you, he snapped. So you see, this is why you being here is not welcome.”
Casey shook his head. “You’re still trying to pin the blame on me. Why won’t you blame those who are really responsible? By doing nothing towards them you’re just encouraging them to think what they did was alright, acceptable, fine. Maria will be their target now forever unless someone stops them.” He stood up straight. “And that someone is me.”
He left, shaking his head. As he did so Carlos and Tiago came running after him. “Senor Long, are you going to do something to those who hurt Maria?”