Tisdale, waiting at his station in Olympia’s after turret, was certainly justified in his anxiety, but there were even more difficult jobs to be accomplished under the circumstances. Because the ships were moving in so close to shore and in danger of running aground, a leadsman was required to stand at the ship’s rail, far forward on the open deck, casting his line down into the water to measure the depth. This Sailor had to cast his line, let it hit bottom, retrieve it, and report both the depth and the type of bottom—while enemy shells roared through the air and crashed into the nearby water, lifting great geysers of water skyward!
When at last the U.S. ships had closed to within five thousand yards, Commodore Dewey calmly uttered the words to Olympia’s captain that would be remembered for all time: “You may fire when you are ready, Gridley.”
According to Olympia’s official log, she commenced firing at 0535. Two-hundred-and-fifty-pound shells erupted from her forward battery and the cruiser shuddered from the eruption. Still in column, only Olympia’s forward guns were “unmasked” to allow firing at the enemy, and Tisdale still “chafed for the opportunity to fight back.” Dewey’s tactics soon remedied the problem. The commodore turned the column to starboard until it was steaming nearly parallel to the Spanish line of ships. Now Tisdale’s after turret could be brought to bear on the enemy, as could every American gun that could be trained to port.
The American gunners did not hold back. Long before the phrase “shock and awe” would enter the American lexicon of war, the Asiatic Squadron let loose with all its fury, firing every available gun as quickly as possible to deluge the Spanish fleet with exploding shellfire. On his flagship Reina Cristina, Admiral Montojo watched as “the Americans fired most rapidly. There came upon us numberless projectiles.”
Olympia led the way as the U.S. ships ran along the Spanish line, firing relentlessly as they passed. When they were beyond the enemy line, they executed a tactical “corpen” of 180 degrees, turning in column to preserve the order of ships for another run in the opposite direction. The guns were shifted to starboard for this run, and again a withering fire was brought to bear on the enemy. The Spanish fought back, even as their ships began to burn and splinter apart. They sortied several torpedo boat attacks, but these were driven back by the Americans’ smaller guns; even the embarked Marines participated, firing their rifles at the charging boats.
The battle raged on for several passes. These tactical maneuvers ensured that the maximum force of the American guns was brought to bear on the stationary Spanish ships. By keeping his ships immobile, Montojo had traded maneuverability for stability and control. As the battle took shape it became evident that this decision also had made them easily identifiable targets. At last Montojo decided to go on the offensive. Whether he saw it as a tactical venture, designed to gain some military advantage, or as merely an act of defiance for honor’s sake is not clear, but he ordered his flagship to get under way and to charge headlong at his tormentors. Apprentice Seaman Longnecher, peering out from his gun port in Olympia, could see the Spanish ship coming. “As the Reina Cristina came out from the yard to meet us, she planted a shell into the side right at my gun port. But it was spent and did not come all the way through before it burst.” John Tisdale was impressed by the Spanish tenacity. He witnessed one of his after turret’s 8-inch shells rip “through and through” the charging Spanish ship, yet “like an enraged panther she came at us as though to lash sides and fight us hand to hand with battle axes, as in the olden Spanish wars.”
U.S. cruisers attack Spanish ships in Manila Bay in the first big battle of the Spanish-American War. U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive
But the charge was in vain. On fire and badly mauled, Reina Cristina was forced to come about and limp back to her mooring. She was so badly damaged that Montojo soon ordered her abandoned. As she sank, he shifted his flag to another ship. Reina Cristina’s losses were catastrophic: 150 were killed and another 90 wounded. Five years later, she would be raised from the mud of Manila Bay; the skeletons of 80 men were discovered in her sick bay.
The battle raged on for another half hour, until the smoke became so thick that it was impossible to see what was happening. It was then that Dewey received a most unsettling report. Word came from Captain Gridley that Olympia had just fifteen rounds of her heavy-caliber munitions remaining—a mere five minutes’ worth of fighting. With the battle undecided as far as he could tell, and in light of this alarming report, Dewey ordered the Asiatic Squadron to withdraw, much to the mixed relief and consternation of the crews. They could not help but be glad for the rest, yet they were “fired up for victory,” as one lieutenant observed.
Moving out of range, Dewey called his captains to Olympia for a meeting. He ordered a hot meal for the crews while these officers conferred. Word spread that Dewey had stopped the fight expressly for the purpose of having breakfast. Not a few of the men expressed their dismay and disapproval for that decision. One gunner was heard to say: “For God’s sake, Captain, don’t let us stop now. To hell with breakfast!”
While the many ate and passed scuttlebutt, the few conferred. Dewey soon learned that the report on low ammunition was in error. He also learned that there had been just six Americans wounded, all in Baltimore, and none killed in action.
The smoke eventually cleared substantially, and at 1116 the U.S. squadron headed back in to finish the fight with the enemy. They resumed the bombardment, and in less than an hour all of the Spanish ships were destroyed or put out of action. A white flag appeared over the naval station at Cavite, and the Battle of Manila Bay was over.
From Olympia’s main deck that night, Wayne Longnecher watched the remnants of the Spanish fleet burning across the water. “It was a beautiful sight to see; besides about 12 or 13 ships all in flames, small magazines were going up all night.” He and his shipmates would never forget that night, nor the day’s events that led up to it.
John Tisdale’s hitch was up, and soon after the battle, he made his way halfway across the world to return home. He had left California as a young boy, still “wet behind the ears.” He came home a Sailor and combat veteran, with tattoos to tell parts of his story and a newfound confidence that comes to those who have faced great challenges and prevailed.
Upon his arrival in America, Tisdale found the country ecstatic over the U.S. Navy’s victory at Manila Bay. Everywhere he went, he heard songs with lyrics praising the great triumph. Banners proclaimed Dewey and his men the “saviors of the Republic,” and newspaper stories spoke of a “new era of American dominance of the sea.”
When the smoke finally cleared, the Spanish fleet had been utterly destroyed, and 381 Spaniards had lost their lives. The Asiatic Squadron had lost not a single man, much less a ship. As in all battles, technology, logistics, and no small amount of courage were major factors in the outcome. But it should be apparent that American tactics were clearly superior to those of the Spanish, and this played no small role in the overwhelmingly favorable outcome of the battle.
Despite this impressive victory, the U.S. strategy for winning the war with Spain was not yet complete. Another Spanish fleet remained in the Atlantic, and until it could be defeated, the war was still undecided.
Santiago
Commodore Dewey’s execution of Mahan’s “offensive defense” strategy was not going to work in the Atlantic. Since the outbreak of war, there had been a great deal of anxiety among the American public that the Spanish might send their Atlantic fleet under Admiral Pascual Cervera y Topete to attack cities along the East Coast of the United States. Because the U.S. Navy could not be certain of the location of Spanish forces, it could not risk going on the offensive and leaving the East Coast unguarded. There also was a logistical reason that Rear Admiral William T. Sampson, Commander of the Home Squadron, could not take his ships across the ocean in search of Cervera’s fleet: his warships could not carry sufficient coal to make the voyage and then to fight a battle without replenishment. The only strategy avail
able to Sampson was to wait for the Spanish to come to him.
Because Cuba was the root cause of the war, it seemed reasonable that Cervera would most likely take his fleet there. It made good strategic sense, therefore, for Sampson to set up his base of operations at Key West, Florida, just eighty nautical miles from Cuba. But to calm the anxieties of the nation, the Navy created the Flying Squadron under Commodore William S. Schley to remain at Hampton Roads, Virginia, in case Cervera did indeed attempt an attack somewhere along the eastern seaboard.
Cervera left Europe on 28 May 1898 with all the Spanish ships that could be spared—four cruisers and two destroyers—and headed for the Caribbean Sea. Sampson’s ships had been patrolling the so-called Wind-ward Passage along the northern coast of Cuba in hopes of intercepting the Spanish fleet, but Cervera headed farther south to replenish his coal on the northern coast of South America before heading for Cuba. Successfully eluding the U.S. Navy, Cervera’s ships eventually arrived unmolested at Santiago on the southeastern side of Cuba.
With the enemy’s position at last fixed, the U.S. Navy could go on the offensive and carry the fight to him. Adhering to another of Mahan’s maxims—that of massing forces—every available U.S. ship now converged on the Caribbean. Schley’s Flying Squadron was released from its defensive duties to join Sampson’s force in the Caribbean, and even USS Oregon left her station in the Pacific to make a high-speed run around the treacherous Cape Horn to join the impending battle.
Because Santiago Bay was too small to allow much maneuvering—less than two nautical miles across at its widest point—and because the narrow entrance was well-defended by gun batteries on either side, going in after the Spanish fleet did not make good tactical sense. Instead, the American ships set up a blockade outside the bay, keeping Cervera’s force bottled up for more than a month.
At 0930 on Sunday, 3 July 1898, with the crews of the U.S. ships all preparing for personnel inspection, the battleship Iowa suddenly fired a gun to get the attention of all ships. From her yardarm flew the signal flags “two-five-zero.” No one needed to check the codebook. It was what everyone had been anticipating for weeks: “Enemy coming out.”
The Americans were all still clad in their finest white uniforms for the inspection as they dashed to their battle stations. Within minutes, the white duck cloth worn by the stokers in the boiler rooms had been transformed to black as they shoveled coal into the gaping furnaces to build up sufficient steam for the great steel giants to get under way.
The first ship to emerge from Santiago Bay was Cervera’s flagship, Maria Teresa, leading a column of the other Spanish ships. Maria Teresa seemed to be headed straight for the cruiser Brooklyn, Schley’s flagship. Assuming that the Spanish cruiser was trying to ram, Schley made a tactical decision he would come to regret: he ordered the helm put over to starboard. Cervera did not intend to ram but was attempting to evade instead. By putting his helm over to starboard as well, he caused the two ships to diverge. Schley continued to hold his rudder over so that Brooklyn turned through a complete circle, which gave Cervera time to open the distance and make a dash westward along the southern coast of Cuba.
Battleship Texas had taken the more aggressive move of turning to port, toward the Spanish ships. But the turning Brooklyn had crossed right into her path, causing Texas to back her engines to avoid a collision. This initial tactical confusion had given the Spanish ships a head start, and for a time it seemed they might escape.
But the U.S. ships were faster once they got up a good head of steam. Soon they had closed to gun range and commenced firing. A running gun-fight lasted for several hours.
U.S. and Spanish ships slug it out during the Battle of Santiago Bay in July 1898. U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive
The crews of the U.S. ships were better trained and had their adversaries out-gunned. Maria Teresa was the first ship to succumb. Numerous shells struck her, one of which severed her fire mains, making it impossible for her crew to fight the spreading fires and forcing her to flood her magazines to prevent a fatal explosion. Burning and sinking, she struck her colors at 1015.
The other Spanish ships suffered similar fates. The destroyers had been the last to emerge from Santiago Bay and succumbed to the deadly fire of the gunboat Gloucester and the cruiser Indiana before they could launch their torpedoes as planned. American gunners pounded the other Spanish cruisers into submission, and, one by one, the Spanish put their rudders over to starboard and deliberately ran aground on the Cuban shore to avoid sinking.
Only Cristóbal Colón was able to escape the devastating onslaught—for a time. She was the fastest Spanish ship and, spurred on by frequent shots of brandy, her stokers were able to pour on coal fast enough to keep her out of range of her pursuers. But by 1300 the stokers were unquestionably exhausted (and probably drunk), and shells from Oregon and Brooklyn began to find their marks. Cristóbal Colón could not endure the pounding long, and soon her captain struck her colors and she too headed for the nearby shore to ground herself.
The American strategy had paid off. The Spanish threat in the Atlantic had been eliminated and, coupled with some important land actions, the war was over in little more than a month. Spanish casualties at Santiago had been in the hundreds. The U.S. Navy had lost one killed and one wounded. Victory led to the end of Spanish rule in Cuba, the Philippines, and Puerto Rico and set the stage for America’s role as a world power in the coming twentieth century.
Tactics Count
As we have seen, strategy has much to do with the outcome of a war. But wars are not won without battles. And battles are not often won without superior tactics. While strategy is in the hands of a relative few—usually admirals and commodores—tactical decisions must be made by many and, therefore, must often be made by Sailors of much lesser rank. John Paul Jones, revered as the father of the U.S. Navy, was a mere lieutenant when he defeated the much superior HMS Serapis in his most famous battle. James Elliott Williams was a first class petty officer when he earned the Medal of Honor by defeating an entire regiment of North Vietnamese soldiers with just the two patrol craft under his command.
A Spanish ship in the aftermath of the Battle of Santiago Bay. Spanish casualties were in the hundreds; the U.S. Navy lost one killed and one wounded. U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive
Tactics and courage often go hand in hand. Both Jones and Williams used superior tactics to achieve their victories, but the tactical decisions they made could not have been carried out without a great deal of courage on their part and on the part of the men fighting with them. In one of the great tactical victories of all time, known as the Battle of Samar, U.S. ships caused a powerful Japanese fleet—which included several battleships and a super battleship—to turn back without striking their intended target, the vulnerable amphibious forces on the beaches of Leyte Island. Yet the ships who accomplished this great feat were a handful of destroyers and destroyer escorts with little hope of survival, much less victory—truly a tactical triumph bought with an incredible amount of courage!
In that same 1944 campaign in Leyte Gulf, another battle had taken place the night before, and this one (described in chapter 5) was marked by superb tactics on the part of the Americans. Another Japanese force was approaching the landing area from a different direction, coming up from the south through a narrow passage among the Philippine Islands known as Surigao Strait. This force of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers came under the cover of darkness, a good tactical decision because the force had no air cover. Had they been able to penetrate Leyte Gulf from the south as planned, the Japanese could have inflicted serious damage on the U.S. landing forces arrayed there. But the Americans, commanded by Rear Admiral Jesse Oldendorf, knew the Japanese were coming and had planned their tactics masterfully.
Because the Japanese would be confined to the narrow strait as they approached, they would have to come in a column formation and would have little maneuvering room. Oldendorf capitalized on this by placing the battleships and cru
isers at the north end of the strait, out in the more open waters of the gulf, where they had room to maneuver and to form a line blocking the exit from the strait. This employed a naval tactic as old as sea warfare itself, called crossing the T. With the Japanese column forming the base of the T, and the American force capping it, the U.S. ships would be showing their sides to the Japanese ships’ bows. This meant the Americans could bring all their guns to bear by training them to one side, while the Japanese could fire only their forward mounts straight ahead. Even worse for the Japanese, when the battle commenced, only ships near the head of the column would be in range so that they alone could fire, while all of the U.S. ships could fire broadsides at once.
Taking further advantage of his geographic position, Oldendorf arrayed his destroyers along either side of the northern end of the strait in such a way as to allow them to charge down the sides of the narrow passage, using the darkness and smokescreens as cover, to launch torpedo attacks at the Japanese flanks.
The plan worked beautifully. Warned of the Japanese approach by PT boats that Oldendorf had placed at the south end of the strait, the U.S. forces at the northern end were ready when the Japanese arrived. American destroyers led the attack using just their torpedoes, knowing that muzzle flashes from their guns would reveal their positions to the enemy. These “tin cans” inflicted serious damage on the approaching enemy. Then the lead Japanese ships took another beating as they came within range of the line of battleships and cruisers blocking the northern end of the strait.
To make matters worse, the Japanese commander made a serious tactical blunder when, deciding that retreat was his best option, he used a corpen maneuver instead of a turn. The former required his ships to maintain the order of the column and turn much as a railroad train would—engine first, followed by each car in succession—which meant that each ship would move into range of the U.S. battleships and cruisers who were raining down death and destruction. Had the Japanese commander used a turn instead of a corpen, all of the Japanese ships would have turned simultaneously, reversing the order of the column and exiting much more efficiently and safely.
A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy Page 24