Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  I must admit that General Shafter impressed me with his administrative ability during the processing of planning out the details. Once the options were laid out, he made rapid decisions. He then formed a methodical progression of operational orders for all the components of the campaign, even while under obvious physical distress.

  This discomfort became more manifest as the meeting went on. Sweat ran profusely down his reddened face and plastered his hair to his scalp. Periodically he stood up to stamp a foot, massage a thigh, or stretch his back and neck. The Cubans discreetly pretended not to notice. I feared the man was in real trouble, but he stoically carried on with the crucial decision making.

  The process continued with only one interruption. A newspaperman was caught standing near the back of the hut, eavesdropping on the discussions. He was removed at once, his protests ignored by an American staff officer who threatened to arrest him. Thereafter, a Marine was stationed there to guard against further intrusions.

  An hour later, at 4 p.m., the planning for the operation was over. Lt. John Miley of the Army staff, a squared-away sort, was brought in during this final phase to take notes. His mandate was to reduce the voluminous notes into a concise document and distribute it at dawn to the U.S. Army commands, Admiral Sampson, and the Cuban high command.

  At the end, Shafter recited the operations plan to the conferees without referring to notes, including dates, times, places, and units. When finished, he gave a polite thank-you to the Cuban generals and raised his ponderous bulk up off the crate, plainly anxious to leave.

  There were no mutual congratulations among the participants, only handshakes and resolute countenances. Each officer, Cuban and American, knew his fate rested on everything in the plan working perfectly, a near impossibility in war. Everyone rose to head outside to the clearing where the mule train waited for the long descent. It was still beastly hot. Several of the American staff spoke longingly about having something cool to drink back on the ship. Shafter had a slight limp as he approached his mule, which I saw was a different animal from the one that had carried him up the mountain.

  García walked over to Shafter and embraced him in the Cuban fashion. Everyone else grew quiet as the two generals held a silent handshake for a long time. García’s unwavering eyes conveyed the burden Shafter shouldered in addition to his military responsibilities—Cuba’s freedom now depended on an American victory. Shafter put his other hand atop García’s in a firm clasp, a solemn acknowledgment.

  Then Shafter turned away, ending the momentous scene. With Lieutenant Miley’s assistance, the general got atop the mule. On the ground beside him, an old Cuban man held the reins. The column headed off. When the last of them plodded down the winding trail, I stood at the crest of the little plateau and watched their descent. The Cuban troops on the trail had waited in the sun this entire time. They saluted again as the procession of American officers passed by them.

  García walked over to me, took my hand in his, and quietly said something that means everything to a Cuban. The memory is one of my proudest possessions.

  “Muchas gracias, Peter, mi querido hermano.” Thank you, Peter, my dear brother.

  16

  The Liberators

  Daiquiri, Cuba

  Wednesday, 22 June 1898

  GENERAL SHAFTER’S INVASION plan was complicated, requiring close coordination of various efforts in spite of difficult terrain, cultural differences, lack of logistical assets, communication barriers, and commanders completely inexperienced in large-scale landing operations. With all that going against it at the beginning, I was amazed that the plan’s execution began exactly as had been outlined in the mountainside hut two days earlier. The initial stage commenced very early on Tuesday, the twenty-first, when several movements by more than six thousand men in the Cuban army were set into motion.

  Major General Rabi led three regiments in a feint toward Cabañas Bay, just west of Santiago. Brigadier General Castillo and a thousand Cubans in two regiments were taken by troop transport in the opposite direction to Demajayabo, a tiny village near Daiquiri, where they were landed and sent on a flanking move to the east to remove the Spanish from the landing site at Daiquiri. Concurrently, General García marched four thousand of his Cuban troops toward Asarradero from their inland camp at Palma. Once there they were to be embarked on ships on the twenty-fourth, heading directly to Daiquiri as reinforcements for the Americans, who would have already landed on the twenty-second.

  My assignment by General Shafter—given as a thirty-second verbal order while he walked to his mule—was to go overland to the invasion site, reconnoitering the eastern defenses of Santiago en route. García, my nominal superior, acquiesced in letting me go. I thus had no time to waste, so my companions and I left Asarradero immediately after Shafter’s descent from García’s headquarters.

  It was another miserable trek, with this one having the added burden of being very close to the Spanish lines and under constant threat of attack. What we learned when studying the enemy defenses was not reassuring. The entire perimeter around Santiago was professionally arrayed with barbed-wire entanglements, trenches, fortified Krupp artillery batteries, blockhouses, and Maxim machine guns—and full of Spanish soldiers. The defensive works were deep and mutually supporting. We could find no weak points on the northern and eastern sides.

  The U.S. Navy had its role in all this, too. On the twenty-first, the day after the generals’ conference, the sole oceanic telegraph cable from Oriente to Haiti—which the Navy had severed a month earlier to deprive the Spanish of its use—was repaired at Playa del Este, east of Daiquiri, and brought into service for the American forces. From Haiti the cable went to Nassau, in the British Bahamas, and from there to Florida. Shafter soon had instantaneous communication with government leaders in Washington.

  At dawn on the morning of the invasion the Navy began diversionary bombardments all along the coast. The battleship Texas attacked Spanish units at Cabañas Bay and dueled with the Socapa batteries on the west side of the entrance to Santiago Harbor. Eagle and Gloucester attacked the small fort and the railroad bridge at Aguadores. Annapolis, Hornet, Helena, and Bancroft attacked Spanish infantry in the Siboney area. The main battle fleet steamed in close to the entrance to Santiago Harbor, lobbing shells at the eastern fortresses and up into the bay to dissuade Spanish warships from coming out to disrupt the American landing operations.

  While these naval sideshows were being enacted, the primary U.S. effort was being directed at the sleepy little village of Daiquiri to the east, where I had arrived two hours earlier. General Castillo, who had raced ahead to lead the local Cuban forces, welcomed me heartily at his position on a hill overlooking the village and shoreline. He pointed out to sea. “General Shafter is keeping his promise. Right on time.”

  The Caribbean was covered with ships. A dozen transports loitering about four miles off Daiquiri’s beach were lowering boats. Another dozen steamed in from the west. Closer inshore were the navy’s warships. Detroit, Castine, Wasp, New Orleans, Scorpion, Suwanee, and Wampatuck were unleashing a furious bombardment on the village and the beach, cratering the entire area, setting the flimsy thatched dwellings alight, and making the ground constantly tremble. Shrapnel scythed down trees and bushes in the nearby forest.

  It was a remarkable display of brute American strength, and it gave heart to the Cubans, who had never seen anything like it. With a frightening roar and swirling machetes, Castillo’s Mambis went charging forward toward the closest Spaniards, about two hundred soldiers who had gathered near the narrow road leading inland to escape the bombardment. The Spanish infantry were overwhelmed in seconds. Caught between the high explosives of the Americans and the vengeance of the Cubans, they rapidly realized the hopelessness of their situation. The entire unit fled up the road at a run.

  This was right about when the grand plan began to unravel.

  The Spaniards’ retreat left Castillo’s men in control of the area. I heard the welcome soun
d of cheers from the various Cuban units celebrating the first combined allied success. The American warships didn’t know of this good news, however, and began to bombard the Cubans, the only targets left. The cheering stopped. The Mambis scrambled en masse to the safety of the jungle behind the village.

  Castillo’s staff carried a large Cuban flag, but the men on the ships couldn’t see it. Rork seized the red, white, and blue banner and ran to a clearing near our position, waving it madly back and forth toward the ships. A shell exploded near him. He bellowed a storm of vile curses that only an American Navy boatswain can conjure up. The nearest ships were a quarter mile or more away from us, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear every word. After another two harrowing minutes—a long time when you are being shot at—the guns stopped. The ensuing silence was eerie, the only sound being the crackling of the burning village.

  At a little after 9 a.m., the first boatloads of American soldiers arrived at the narrow iron pier. Law, Rork, Fortuna, and I walked down through the village to greet them. They were regular infantry from General Lawton’s division and expecting the worst, cautiously scanning the area as they leaped one by one off the boat whenever a swell lifted it close enough to the pier. Fanning out across the pier they began heading toward us, the incredulous sergeant in charge blurting out, “Who the hell are you fellas? Y’all wannee makee surrendero?”

  Rork was about to admonish this gross breech of discipline, but then the sergeant saw our insignia and quickly added, “Oh, hell, you’re Americans. Very sorry, sir! I thought you was the enemy trying to surrender.”

  The sergeant’s confusion was completely understandable. Our uniforms were less than pristine, having been worn continuously for the last several days. Rork grumbled something under his breath about sergeants.

  The sergeant asked Rork, “What’re you sailors doing here on land?”

  I could tell Rork was about to give a colorful but insulting answer, so, seizing the once-in-a-lifetime moment, I announced nonchalantly to the new arrivals, “Good morning, men. On behalf of the United States Navy and the Marine Corps, we welcome the U.S. Army to Cuba. We’re very glad you’ve finally come to join us in the war.”

  The sailors manning the boat laughed. The soldiers looked at the sergeant for their response. The sergeant was still confused, my dry wit going right over his head. He’d expected a fight, not humor, and peered about looking for the Spanish.

  Then he answered the only way he knew. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sergeant,” I said, “as far as the enemy goes, they’ve been removed for you by the Cuban Liberation Army, so please clear this pier and make room for the soldiers following behind you. Chief Rork here will show you where to go. Just follow him.”

  The sergeant acknowledged my order and told his men, “Well boys, I guess we’ll just follow the Navy. They know where we’re supposed to go.”

  Rork gave me a perturbed glance. “Where do you want ’em, sir?”

  “Put them across the road to the village, Rork. Then return here.”

  After Rork led them off, I surveyed the scene. Things were happening rapidly. At least ten Navy steam launches towing five or six launches each were heading for the pier. Another eight launches were already arriving, each vying to land troops as quickly as possible. Two other launches had turned away from the confusion near the pier and were trying to run up on the beach. Even though the sea was calm, there was a gentle undulation that gained in height as the water got shallower and culminated in four-foot-high breakers on the underwater coral ledge a hundred feet off the beach. I saw Rork waving them away, pointing to the overcrowded pier. Oh hell, I thought, it’s low tide. The tidal range on this part of the coast wasn’t much, but it was enough to hinder or help.

  Law read my mind. “This wasn’t planned very well. I’d better go take care of the confusion on the pier, sir.”

  “Good,” I told him. “Once the tide comes up a bit, the boats can go over that coral.”

  Rork returned to where I stood and gave a more colorful assessment of the American invasion. “The damned Army’s cocked this one up by the bloody numbers, sir. Look there, these poor bastards’re wearing heavy wool uniforms. An’ that sergeant just told me his lads’ve drunk all their water on the way here from their ships. Some’re already startin’ to drop from the bleedin’ heat. An’ even their officers’ve not a blessed clue as to where to go or what to do. Nobody’s told ’em.”

  “Yeah, I know. The Army hasn’t done a landing like this since before the Civil War, Rork. They’re learning as they go.”

  He huffed in disgust. “Look at that. Can you believe the Army brought only one cargo barge to bring horses an’ supplies to the pier—one bloody barge for an army o’ 15,000 men? Aye, an’ look out there just now, sir. Those soldiers’re pushin’ their horses off the ships! They’re hopin’ they’ll swim in to the beach, but they aren’t. This thing is a proper total bollocks, it is.”

  I followed his pointing arm. The transport Yucatan, a hastily chartered merchant ship now crammed with soldiers, had anchored only a quarter mile away, by far the closest in of the transports. Several panicked horses were swimming in circles alongside the ship, their hoofs flailing the water frantically. As others were dumped overboard, soldiers lining the rails shouted commands at them, to no avail. One circle of panicked horses headed out to sea.

  Fortuna stood next to me, his face furrowed in concern. I had to agree with his unsaid estimation—so far the liberators were not very impressive. I wondered what Castillo, up in the hills, thought about what he was seeing.

  “Bloody friggin’ hell,” muttered Rork to no one in particular. “It’s gonna be a long friggin’ day.”

  17

  In the Arena and Daring Great Things

  Daiquiri, Cuba

  Wednesday, 22 June 1898

  AN HOUR LATER I was standing on the pier when a flash of light caught my eye—the glint of sunlight off spectacles in one of the approaching launches. A moment after that I heard an unmistakable voice. It was none other than Lt. Col. Theodore Roosevelt rattling off his opinions to Col. Leonard Wood sitting beside him near the stern.

  “I simply cannot believe the confounded lack of proper preparation on the part of the corps staff. Don’t they read history—or even the newspapers—to learn how the British do things? Egad, Colonel, even the black Zulu armies of Africa are more organized than this! I just thank the good Lord above that our Navy is here to get us ashore with their boats. Speaking of that, who are those fellows yonder on the pier? Why, they look like Navy men!”

  In the next second he was pounding the boat’s gunwale. “Look there, Colonel Wood! Do my eyes deceive me or is that Peter Wake? Yes, it bully well is Wake, and by Gumphrey, he’s got Chief Rork with him, too!”

  I had Rork clear a space at the pier for the approaching boat, in which Theodore now stood in his self-designed uniform, a British-looking khaki affair with lots of pockets. He flashed his famous grin at me while waving an outlandish flat-sided slouch hat.

  He jumped onto the pier first, Colonel Wood following with far more dignity. Roosevelt suddenly stopped, his mien changing from elation to stoic determination. Coming to attention, he saluted me.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Roosevelt, of the First Volunteer Cavalry Regiment, sir. Good to see our Navy here!”

  Seeing this martial exhibition of respect, everyone around us went to attention. Except Wood, who was scanning the hills for the enemy. Even the soldiers perched precariously in the boat tried to stand still. I hastily returned the salute before any of them fell overboard.

  “Thank you, Theodore,” I said, at which he beamed and pumped my hand vigorously.

  I disengaged and announced, “Welcome to Cuba, gentlemen. The Cubans pushed the Spanish out of the village several hours ago, and we have a defensive perimeter set up inland. You can assemble your men over there, under the shade of those trees, before heading inland.”

  I motioned toward a shrapnel-mangled laurel
tree on the other side of the village. Wood’s eyes continued to dart everywhere, taking in the pandemonium on the pier and beach.

  Turning to Roosevelt, I said, “You’re six days late, Theodore. You and the Army were supposed to be here on the sixteenth.”

  “It’s a long, incredibly frustrating story, Peter,” he replied with an angry harrumph. “Total chaos from the moment we said good-bye in Tampa. I’ll tell you later. But first I must attend to the task of assembling our troopers and finding my horses.”

  Wood interrupted. “While you’re getting that done, Theodore, I’ll go find General Young’s brigade headquarters. Peter, do you know where they set that up?”

  “He’s not ashore yet, Leonard,” I said. “Looks like you are the senior Army officer here right now. Yours is also the first cavalry regiment. The soldiers who landed this morning told me they’re in Lawton’s infantry division.”

  His eyes hardening even more as they surveyed the ineptitude around us, Wood calmly said, “Thank you, Peter. Then I suppose I’ll find a spot to set up our headquarters. I’m sure the general will be arriving shortly. Perhaps we can meet later on, when things are sorted out. I’d like to hear your view of the situation.”

  Wood, Roosevelt, and their cavalrymen formed up in a column and marched inland from the pier. Only a few of their horses made it ashore, and those were for the senior officers only. They would be cavalrymen in name only.

  The morning wore on as hundreds, then thousands of soldiers gathered in the ruined village. So many were coming ashore that some boats gave up on waiting for space at the pier and again tried to run the surf to the beach. Most made it, but one loaded down with black soldiers and a mound of supplies capsized. Two of the soldiers didn’t come up from the bottom. Capt. Bucky O’Neill, commander of a cavalry troop in Roosevelt’s regiment, dove in to save them, to no avail.