A grimy sergeant crouching nearby wasn’t as blasé. “Well, I’ll be damned if he ain’t right, Colonel. Them’s the sonsabitches, sure enough. Now we can start killin’ ’em back!”
For the first time that morning, I saw the legendary Roosevelt grin, a welcome sight. He thrust a fist toward the enemy, announcing, “Well now, my lads, it seems opportunity is knocking. Let us use it to show those Spanish scalawags just what an American fighting man can do with a rifle!”
And his lads did just that. A couple of the regiment’s best shots, Rocky Mountain men, were brought up to our position. After calmly adjusting their rifle sights and measuring their breathing, they let fly with instant results. The hats disappeared. More targets were spotted high up in the foliage. A minute later, two bodies fell out of trees, accompanied by their weapons. The jungle resounded to the cheers of the troopers.
My companions approved, each in his own way. Rork nodded sagely and pronounced his professional judgment: “Damned good shots. This ain’t their first time.”
Major Fortuna’s analysis was, “Difficult trajectory, range, and timing. Excellent results.”
Noveno barely moved his head in the affirmative and smiled.
It wasn’t over. More hats came into view farther east and were instantly tracked by two dozen rifles. The troopers tensed and leaned into their weapons, but someone quickly called out that these hats were tan felt, not straw. That meant they were American soldiers, regulars of the 1st Cavalry, along with a few black troopers of the 10th who had wandered too far to the west, or left, in their advance northward toward the enemy defense lines. With more jauntiness to our steps we moved toward those felt hats.
Five minutes later we accomplished the goal of our assignment. Our right flank was joined—the army term is “married”—with the left flank of the regular regiments in the rest of the brigade. Following a quick reunion of the brigade’s troopers, complete with humorous insults about which side of the brigade was most successful and why, the entire line moved northward, away from the path and into the thick tangle, toward the foe.
It was slow going; damned near impossible to make any headway. Roosevelt quickly decided after a few moments of that exercise in frustration to move toward the enemy via a new direction. Keeping a small detachment closely connected with the other regiments, he went back halfway along the path to a thinned-out place and led his men off the path in an angled course to the northwest, pocket compass in one hand and revolver in the other.
The plan was to obliquely merge with Wood’s main body of the regiment, which, judging by their gunfire, was getting closer to the Spanish defenses. This new slog proved more grueling than the previous one but had less distance to go, with the welcome incentive of reuniting with Wood’s main body on higher ground with less foliage. Anywhere other than that jungle valley was fine by me. Once reconstituted, the regiment would then go about its primary business of dislodging the enemy from the western side of the Spanish defense line at Las Guasimas, which had heretofore remained largely untouched. Once that was done, the road to Santiago would be open.
Emerging from the claustrophobic forest into the scrubland, we found the hillside trail and the main body of the 1st Volunteer Cavalry Regiment. The enemy’s earthworks were only a hundred yards away to the north and higher up on the side of the hill. They were less seen than heard and felt as a deluge of bullets assailed us from that direction.
We also came upon the body of Sergeant Fish beside the trail. Theodore was visibly affected by the sight of his dead friend. Then, conscious of those around him, he adjusted his spectacles, set his jaw, and ordered, “Forward, men. This is just the start. Our time for revenge will come soon.”
Moments later we came upon the body of Allyn Capron, his handsome face contorted in death. None of us lingered as Chaplain Brown ran forward and knelt to say a prayer over him, for a hail of gunfire swept over us from the enemy line. We bent down into a lower crouch, dashing forward and to the left, off the trail. The enemy gunfire diminished, and we regained the trail, trotting forward, passing many troopers crouching in the bushes.
Out in front of the column we found Wood. He was coolness personified, telling his cursing soldiers, “Don’t swear, men—shoot!” and carefully instructing them, “Sight your target’s head or chest, then fire. Do not waste rounds.”
It was an admirable performance of leadership. It was obvious to me that Wood, who’d been awarded the Medal of Honor for his heroism in an Indian battle years earlier, knew what he was doing. His confidence was visibly inspiring his men, who calmed themselves and followed his orders.
A few moments later, over on the even higher ground to the left, Major Brodie, third in command of the regiment, took a bullet in his wrist, an excruciating wound. We had wandered over there with Wood, who was checking that side’s progress. Even Rork winced when he saw the major’s wound. Though Brodie insisted on remaining on the front line, Colonel Wood saw the major’s intense agony and knew he couldn’t last long in command of the regiment’s left wing.
Roosevelt was ordered to take over the left squadron of troops and move them along the ridge to higher ground on the Spanish west flank. I told my entourage we were staying with him. The country was more open, akin to what Americans were used to seeing, but that made it far more dangerous, too, because there was less concealment.
From this point onward we were in a full-blown battle, and the ensuing chaos clouds my memory. When facing mortal combat, you quickly descend into a myopia in which you take in only what is happening in the thirty feet immediately around you. A few paces ahead of me, scarcely within my periphery, Roosevelt was leading almost half the regiment, fully four hundred men, toward the Spanish positions.
I could tell he knew this was his moment. Caught up in the intensity, my friend drew his fancy store-bought saber. Waving it over his head, he exhorted his troopers to keep moving forward through the scrub toward the enemy. Opposing us were several hundred Spanish infantrymen, veterans of years in Cuba, securely ensconced within rifle pits, stone walls, and trenches spread across higher ground on our front. They had the perfect defensive position, the very one Colonel Clavel had warned me against assaulting.
This is insane, I told myself as I moved forward with everyone else. I knew it was stupid, for I’d endured similar scenarios fighting Confederates in Florida, Chileans in Peru, and French artillery in Vietnam. But nevertheless I ran toward the killing zone. Why my reason deserted me and I joined the insanity I cannot explain. Nonetheless, there I was, running with Rork and Law beside me to the right and our two Cuban partners on my left. All around us, the western cowboys and eastern athletes followed a crazy, bespectacled romantic into his first battle.
Men went down in ones and twos from a relentless fusillade of Mauser rounds. Incredibly, the attack never slowed. We were hungry and thirsty, our clothing was sopping wet from sweat and abject fear, our skin was ripped open by thorns, but everyone kept their eyes forward, spurred on by a ridiculously high but calm Yankee voice cultivated at Harvard that allowed no other option than getting done what we’d come there to do.
The relentless Spanish gunfire—how do they have all that ammunition?—was nothing compared to our lunatic quest of reaching those trenches and ending this misery. I looked over and saw Rork grinning—his jaded soul had been infected too. Youthful Lieutenant Law and middle-aged Major Fortuna both had eyes ablaze with the primordial instinct that had taken over our minds and bodies. Even Noveno fixed his gaze on the Spanish trenches, his machete ready for its grisly work.
We heard cheering to our right—Wood’s men on the trail—and Roosevelt responded with his own cheer, waving again his parade-ground saber. He pointed it at a red-tile-roofed farmhouse that had come into view 150 yards to the northwest, the only structure I’d seen since leaving Siboney. With a visible target in sight, the regiment poured rounds into it as we ran. Rork and I blasted buckshot out of our shotguns as the troopers fired their Krags. Law shot his Lee Navy
rifle, and Fortuna paused every so often to very deliberately fire his captured Spanish Mauser.
Another storm of 7-millimeter Mauser rounds came at us from an unseen trench line in the grass to the right. We were enfiladed, three more troopers going down. Another half-dozen slumped or clutched their limbs. Someone yelled that Leonard Wood was dead; someone else said the right side was withdrawing. Both were ignored. The men continued rushing, stumbling, trudging forward up that slope.
Then I realized we’d outflanked the Spanish positions. A trench lay empty to our right. I saw several of the light blue uniforms of the enemy moving away to the left, toward Santiago. More followed. The Spanish were retreating from their trenches in small groups as others laid down a field of fire.
I didn’t understand it. Why are the Spanish leaving? They still have other trenches. We don’t even have the full regiment on the scene yet. Is it a trick to draw us into an ambush? Just as Theodore and I reached the bullet-pocked farmhouse the answers to my questions became clear.
Suddenly, inexplicably, everything changed. Our troopers no longer dropped from bullets or heat exhaustion. The continual zinging of the Mausers just stopped. The only enemy soldiers in sight were running down the road. The trenches were unoccupied. So was the farmhouse. Even the thudding of artillery over on the far right had ended. Everything was abruptly silent, as if an electric switch had been turned off.
Colonel Clavel had been right. The whole thing had only been a Spanish rearguard action exacting a heavy toll of American blood, ammunition, and endurance. Now it was over.
My watch showed 9:38 a.m. We’d been in battle for an hour and a half since the artillery rounds began at 8. The farmhouse fight had only taken a few minutes but felt like hours. And now in the aftermath came the assessment, always the same no matter the country’s banner.
Officers arrived to report unit positions and casualties to Roosevelt. Sergeants checked on their men’s ammunition, food, and water. The troopers, exhausted but still wary of a counterattack, rested on bended knee. Skirmishers were posted out front, on the flanks, and to the rear. Contiguous defense lines were established. Colonel Wood—still alive after all—came up. He congratulated Roosevelt, received his report, then went off to make his own regimental report to the brigade commander.
I dispatched Fortuna and Noveno to report the situation to Colonel Clavel, who, from what I could tell, was only half a mile away on the American far right flank. I sent Rork and Law to find food and water for us. I was left standing next to Theodore. My right knee was wobbly, an old wound revisiting me from the strain and stress. I noticed Theodore’s saber hand trembling slightly.
“It seems we’ve run them off, Peter,” he said vaguely, looking over at the trench, now filling with his own men.
It was time for the truth. “No, we didn’t, Theodore. They withdrew their forces in good order, which was their plan from the start. This was only a rearguard action to slow us down and kill as many as they could, which they did. We were damn lucky we didn’t lose more.”
He turned his gaze away from a pile of spent Mauser shells on the trench’s parapet, focusing on me with a brooding look. His voice was hoarse and distant. “Yes, I think you may be right. In any event, I finally faced the elephant, Peter, and didn’t flinch. I was desperately fearful I would flinch in front of my men.”
Images of my first battle, so long ago, came to mind. A skirmish, really, on the misnamed Peace River of Florida back in 1863. My decisions led to sailors dying—my sailors. I nearly died. My hand touched the scar on my right temple. Another quarter of an inch more …
It was also a time for empathy. I’d once been where he was now. “No, Theodore, you didn’t flinch, not one bit. You led your men under enemy fire and accomplished the mission. And now that you know what it’s like to be shot at, you don’t have to worry about that flinching stuff anymore, so forget about it.”
“Thank you. I am very glad to have it behind me,” he reflected.
“Good. But get ready, because today was just a little practice session compared to what’s ahead. I’ve seen those defenses around Santiago. It’ll be a long, bloody fight to take them. You’ll need to be resolute in preparing your men, smart about planning your part in the assault, and then absolutely ruthless in executing it.”
Theodore’s voice regained its determination. “Yes, I know.”
As I surveyed the carnage around us, there was no doubt in my mind that he did know. Theodore Roosevelt was a naturally quick study. I knew he had better be.
Mistakes in war are measured in the blood of those who trust you.
21
The Butcher’s Bill
Near Sevilla, Cuba
Friday Night, 24 June 1898
THERE WAS NO CLOSE pursuit of the retreating Spanish force, a tactic that has been the standard procedure of armies for centuries in order to prevent a concerted counterattack. But by the time the dismounted American cavalry brigade took possession of the Spanish positions at Las Guasimas it possessed neither the manpower nor the energy to pursue the enemy.
So the Spanish left the area unmolested and headed west toward their main lines at Santiago. The 1st Volunteer Cavalry Regiment moved in skirmish formation along the road for less than a mile beyond Las Guasimas, then stopped. We camped that afternoon in a field near the tiny settlement of Sevilla.
Shelter halves offered us some protection against the penetrating afternoon sun and the evening rains. What little dry firewood could be found was gathered for the cook fires started after the rain ended. Roosevelt’s troopers paused in their chores to watch the black troopers of the 9th Cavalry, veterans of twenty years of Indian fighting, as they tramped through our area to man the front line. When greeted amiably by the 1st Volunteer Cavalry, the inscrutable Buffalo Soldiers replied with dour nods and grunts—for them, this was just another march in yet another miserable place, in some other war.
In the shadowy dusk of the late afternoon, General Adna Chaffee and a regiment of his regular infantry brigade also came up the road, having hastened all the way from their landing site on the beach at Siboney. As the infantrymen marched through, they were greeted with a few good-natured taunts from some of the volunteers about being late to the war. None of them laughed or retorted with insults, and the heckling stopped.
As the sky turned from peach to magenta a few minutes after sundown, a begrimed and clearly fatigued Theodore Roosevelt drifted over to where Rork and I were cooking dinner over a tiny clump of dry kindling. I’d never seen Theodore this drained of verve. The man was almost asleep on his feet. I invited him to sit down and share our meal, and he gratefully accepted.
Having eaten already, and being a bit uncomfortable around higher-ranking officers, Lieutenant Law excused himself and went off into the gathering darkness to seek his own peers, the junior Army officers. Rork had no such qualms and gestured for Roosevelt to sit on Law’s blanket.
Our dinner was not the official rations. That cursed potted meat in tin cans had a rancid smell that would gag a dog. The issued rations hadn’t been replenished after we’d run out that morning anyway, for no supplies had made it up to us. Nobody missed them. Instead, dinner was the spoils of war—black beans found in bags on a dead mule beside the abandoned farmhouse, complete with a pot in which to cook them. This discovery was courtesy of Rork, who possesses a petty officer’s ingrained talent for scavenging ammunition, food, rum, and other essential items—though not necessarily in that order.
The pot of beans was duly boiled, with the welcome addition of some pepper and the regimental cook’s gift to Rork of a tiny morsel of fatback to add to the taste. This entrée was accompanied by cups of strong Cuban coffee spiked with aguardiente and stirred with a stick of sugarcane. Earlier, Rork suggested to me—with a straight face, no less—that the liquor might prove a useful sedative, allowable since our adopted unit was relieved of frontline guard duty and thus of extreme vigilance. I concurred, also promoting its antiseptic qualities. This conv
ersation took place before Theodore joined us. Neither of us told him what was in his coffee.
Theodore lowered himself to the ground and dug into the plate of beans Rork handed him. Never one to care for hard spirits, he nonetheless drained the cup. Incredibly, he showed no reaction. Rork and I exchanged mystified glances.
Looking at the old boatswain, Roosevelt matter-of-factly intoned, “Yes, Rork, I know what you put in the coffee. Your sly look warned me to expect something beforehand, and I smelled it before I even had a sip.”
“Ooh, well, hope you didn’t mind, sir,” replied Rork with actual sincerity. He nodded toward me. “We just needed a wee nip for strength. Never know when it’ll be the last.”
“Ah, that which hath made them drunk, hath made me bold!” quoted Roosevelt with gusto, before wearily adding, “But tonight it just makes me tired. Been a long day, comrades. Just got back from the surgeon.”
Using sailors’ traditional dark term for the casualty list, Rork quietly asked, “An’ how bad’s the butcher’s bill, sir?”
Theodore stared at the flames. “Eight of our fine men were killed, including dear Hamilton Fish and Allyn Capron. Thirty-four in the regiment are reported wounded. I’m told another half dozen are wounded in some minor fashion but have chosen to stay in the ranks. Total American losses in all three regiments of the brigade were sixteen killed and fifty-two wounded. We volunteers took a fearful share of that.”
It was a frightful toll for such a small engagement. And it portended worse for the future, when our troops would face a large-scale battle. Rork frowned, then asked the expected next question. “An’ what o’ the enemy’s losses?”
Honoring the Enemy Page 13