While this repartee was going on, Theodore was looking over the kettle’s rim at the enemy through his fancy binoculars. After a long perusal he muttered to himself, “Ah, ha … I see …” Then decisively, “Well, it’s got to be done.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Fearing he was formulating further heroics, I peered around the kettle’s underside, which I judged to be far safer than looking over the top. What I saw through the haze of caustic gun smoke covering our hill was less than reassuring.
Over to our left, General Kent’s infantry was halfway up the middle section of San Juan Heights. Thousands of dark blue dots in ragged lines and clusters were ascending the grassy hillsides. Regimental flags waved frantically as their bearers ran up the slope, showing the rate of advance. Banks of gun smoke from light fieldpieces hung over the battlefield from the American lines near the river.
Along the top of the heights were four long lines of light blue dots protected by trenches, several fortified houses, a couple of artillery batteries, and a large blockhouse. The American general assault was being carried out only by the left and center portions of our army, however. The right side of the attack—our side—had been slowed by the still ferocious Spanish defense of El Caney two miles to our right and of the outer hill we currently occupied.
From this vantage point I could see that the fighting at El Caney was still intense. Help from that direction wasn’t coming anytime soon. Though I was duty bound to report to General García, right then it seemed better to stay and take my chances with Roosevelt for a while longer. As dangerous as Kettle Hill was, it was better than crossing several miles of enemy-held territory while searching for my Cuban superior, with only three men and without the provisions he had sent me to get, in the midst of trigger-happy soldiers of three armies.
Returning my focus to the main attack, I couldn’t see how the infantry on the left and center could overwhelm the heights without an attack against the Spanish from our side of the line. But how could we take the hills on our front without Lawton’s thousands of infantry? Our men were worn out. All over our hilltop, troopers were sprawled on the ground calling for water or Dr. Church’s medical attendants. Every minute, the volleys of Spanish rifle fire from San Juan Heights were wounding more.
It must have easily been 100 degrees by then. The layer of air just above the ground was shimmering from the heat. I doubted the men were capable of traversing another quarter mile under intense rifle and artillery fire, much less climbing an even more heavily defended hill and dislodging the enemy from their trenches at bayonet point.
I also had no doubt that Roosevelt was going to order his men do just that, with him leading the way. He gripped my arm and made it official. “It appears our brethren over yonder on the left are in serious need of our assistance, Peter, and we need to provide it post haste. Don’t you agree?”
I damn well didn’t want to agree, but I had to admit he was right. Kent’s soldiers needed help, and they needed it fast. Our pressuring this side of the Spanish line would keep the enemy from concentrating against Kent on that side. This was it: the decisive moment of the battle, probably of the entire campaign, which was on the verge of failure. We had to try.
“Yeah, I agree, Theodore,” I said flatly.
Pointing out an area on the far right where there weren’t as many enemy soldiers, Major Fortuna suggested, “Perhaps a flanking move in that direction would draw enough Spanish off General Kent for him to gain the heights, Colonel. Upon reaching the top, we could also sweep the Spanish lines from the side—an enfilade.”
Roosevelt curtly shook his head. “No, that would be an advance of almost a mile, and in this heat it’s too much, Major. My men can’t make it that far. As I see it, we’ll have to take the shortest distance and time, and strike the enemy immediately. We’ll head for that marshy pond in this slight valley between us and the enemy, go around the right side of it, and then run like the dickens at them on that hill.”
He swiveled around to face me. I nodded. “You’re right, Theodore. But we’ll have to go fast, before Kent’s division loses momentum.”
He pounded the kettle. “Then so we shall. I’ll lead my men right at them!”
Decision made, Roosevelt sent runners out to his subordinate commanders with the new orders, then quick-marched toward our rather meager defense line on the west side of the hill, where men were dodging the constant enemy fire. Oblivious to the bullets zinging all around him, he waved his hat high, shouting something I couldn’t make out but doubtless was splendidly glorious. Seconds later, his face tightly drawn in resolve, he went right through our line and strode down the hillside toward yet another line of that damned barbed wire.
He was already far in front of our troops by the time I had gotten my things ready to follow him. Taking a deep breath, I whispered a quick prayer for help and headed for Theodore. I heard my tired men fall in behind me.
I soon regretted my decision.
26
Parker’s Guns
San Juan Heights, Cuba
Friday, 1 July 1898
ROOSEVELT’S INTENDED BEAU geste didn’t unfold quite as he’d thought it would. With impeccably bad luck, he bounded over the solitary line of barbed wire on the side of our hill facing the enemy just as the Spanish unleashed a new hail of lead toward our lines.
As if miffed by the Spaniards’ insolent intrusion into his scene of glory, Theodore stopped, brandished his pistol at them, and cast them a contemptuous look. Then, using his best oratorical voice, which I could scarcely hear above the again-constant thunderous roar of enemy firing, he waved his hat toward his beloved troopers back on the hilltop and shouted, “Follow me, men!”
That said, he spun around, returned his attention to the enemy, and headed down the grassy slope toward the pond in the valley. Most of the troopers, busy ducking the Spanish bullets and artillery or tending to their wounds and water, never noticed his grand effort or heard his command.
The enemy did notice, however, and immediately sent a volley to his location, all of which miraculously missed my rash young friend. It was a magnificent performance, this charge of Theodore Roosevelt toward San Juan Heights, worthy of a Pierre Loti novel. But alas, there was a problem.
Only five of Theodore’s men followed—and two of them were quickly gunned down.
Theodore was a hundred yards down the gentle slope when he turned around, suddenly realizing the situation. This was just as my men and I had reached the defense line and were about to step out onto that perilous hillside.
Theodore gestured for the three survivors near him to lie down in the tall grass and stay put. Two of them crumpled before they could do that, shot. The third dove for the grass. Seeing that, I stopped my men and we all dropped to the grass. In seconds Roosevelt was stomping back up the hill toward his regiment, swearing like a boatswain and glaring evilly at the line of troopers. When he vaulted the fence again, his regiment got hit with a full load of scathing Rooseveltian invective, the likes of which impressed even Rork. The troopers were reduced to shocked apologies for not hearing his command to charge.
Recognizing they really hadn’t heard him, Roosevelt’s epithets stopped in mid-word. He laughed out loud and told them, arms outstretched, “Well then, boys, let us do it now!”
While all this was going on, the Spanish were not idle. The air was filled with their lead, which cut down bushes and men alike. I still don’t know how Roosevelt, who never tried to evade the fire, emerged unscathed.
But he did. As he stood there fearlessly in the bright sunlight, his short and almost plaintive speech worked. This time around, Theodore’s entire regiment, augmented by the others on the hill, followed him. Five hundred men headed down that slope toward the enemy-held ridge of hills on the other side of the little valley. More joined in from all along the line, until the entire brigade of two thousand soldiers was moving west.
My men and I ended up in the middle of the horde, carried along by its movement. As we
got to the valley floor and neared the marshy pond, Rork proclaimed, “Yea, though us poor bastards’re walkin’ through the valley of death, we shall fear nary a one o’ those damned Spaniardo bullets, cause those dumb buggers are the worst shots me eyes’ve ever seen!”
Hoots and cheers rose from the men around him, many adding their own vulgar descriptions of the enemy. This derisive élan served to speed up the pace, which I found difficult to maintain. Rork seemed to get his second wind, though, and was jauntily bouncing along on my left, hurling Irish invective at the Spaniards in the heights above us.
The valley was stifling, like a humid oven. The stagnant air and the heat were quickly depleting what little was left of my stamina. There were no trees to offer shade from the sun and concealment from the enemy. The range was much closer now for the Spanish, making it easier for them. More men began dropping, in spite of Rork’s joke.
We had to get across and out of the killing ground. As we rounded the northern side of the pond—fetid swamp would be a better description—I pointed to a small, rocky ledge set into the bottom of the hill and told my men, “See that little defilade at the bottom of the hill?” It wasn’t much, but if we could reach it we could find some shelter from the enemy’s fire and maybe a bit of shade.
“Aye, sir. Gettin’ a bit … dicey … ’round here,” quipped Rork, suddenly sounding short of breath. The jaunty expression was gone from his face. His pace was slowing.
We were more than halfway there. Fortuna, who was right behind me, popped off a rifle shot at the enemy and afterward made a nonchalant comment to Law that I made out amidst the din. “A rare mistake on the part of the Spanish. They didn’t put their trenches on the military crest; they put them on the top. It provides us that slight defilade ahead and a good silhouette shot at their heads in the trenches.”
Law didn’t reply, for another storm of Mauser fire swept across the field. The Spanish were firing by volley, a disciplined method to conserve their ammunition. Two volunteer troopers went down on my left, falling into the swampy water. I felt a sting on my right forearm. It was nothing, only a graze, but it hurt like the blazes.
The general pace of the advance slowed when the men ahead began ascending the hill. Clouds of American gun smoke hung in the air, choking my dry mouth and reminding me of my thirst. I saw but could not hear officers shouting for their men to stay with their company and regiment. Wounded men were calling for medical help. Someone far behind me shrieked in pain. But it was all muted by the gunfire from the Spanish above us.
I barely heard Rork cursing the Army and Cuba as a black trooper in front of him staggered toward the swamp, blood pouring out of a hole in his jaw. Rork shouted for a medical orderly. None came. I helped Rork drag the man out of the water; then we headed for the rock outcropping.
I searched for Roosevelt, but in all the confusion I’d lost him from view. Was he hit? It didn’t matter then. The rock outcropping was only fifty yards away. In a pause between the Spanish volleys, I rasped out to my companions, “Run for it!”
“Friggin’ Army … sonsabitches … have cocked up this … whole … damn … thing,” snarled Rork as he adjusted the seabag to his left shoulder, shotgun in his right hand. He tripped over something and stumbled into me. His face was crimson and pouring sweat. I offered to take the seabag, but he brusquely waved me away. “Just lead us out o’ this!”
The soldiers nearest us spotted the defilade too. Soon a dozen dark-blue-clad troopers were running over the swampy ground toward it. Younger and faster, they got there first.
I heard the mechanical rattle of sustained gunfire, sounding as if it came from the Spanish side of the valley. It wasn’t rifle shots. It was a machine gun, somewhere close by. My gut clenched into a knot. The Spanish army used German-built Maxim machine guns.
But when it fired again, I knew the gun wasn’t a Maxim. The sound of a German navy Maxim was imprinted in my brain, for one of them had nailed me at Samoa nine years earlier. This gun was slower, with a lower-pitched, clanking sound. Maybe the Spanish had Colt machine guns, or a Nordenfelt? And where exactly was the damn thing? I scanned the ridge but couldn’t locate it.
“Spanish machine guns!” someone yelled. Other men repeated the warning. Around me, fear instantly replaced exhaustion on the faces of the American soldiers. We were completely exposed and all thinking the same thing. We were dead.
“It’s the Gatlings, men,” I heard Theodore shout from far ahead of us. “Our Gatlings!” Then I saw him at the foot of the hill, flourishing his crumpled hat above his head. He turned back toward the enemy and charged up the hillside with crazed momentum.
The rattling Gatling shots increased in volume. Several of them were firing now. The top of the hill erupted in a line of spurting sand and dirt. What a fool I was! I should have recognized the sound immediately, for the Navy used Gatlings. But my brain had been muddled by the overall confusion. That realization startled me. I had to get my wits together.
It was good news, though, and I knew who was responsible for it. Lt. “Blackie” Parker, an Army infantry officer I’d met back in Tampa, was in charge of V Corps’ four Gatling guns, each one sporting ten barrels that spit out lead at a prodigious rate. At last I spotted them over to the right. Parker had moved three of his guns forward to the very edge of the attacking force and was using them offensively. That violated Army doctrine, but their effectiveness in this situation was beyond debate.
Parker’s guns poured a veritable hailstorm of hot American lead at the Spanish trenches along the hill in front of and above us. Thousands of rounds were tearing the earth and rocks apart. It went on and on, a continuous thudding of mechanical destruction spewing into the trenches.
This was the moment the tide turned at Santiago.
The Americans, reinvigorated, ran forward, cheering the Gatlings. Ahead of us, the 9th and 10th Cavalry Regiments were ascending the hill along with some of Kent’s infantrymen who had drifted over from their regiments on the left. The front of our regiment was right among them. The 1st Cavalry was climbing up on the right.
Suddenly the Gatlings stopped. In the ensuing silence I realized the incessant thunder of enemy gunfire had faded. I could hear men around me talking. Slowing down to catch my breath, I took stock of the situation. Behind us, a large American flag had been raised over the kettle on the hill we’d just departed. The sun and a slight breath of wind made it shimmer, a stirring sight even to my jaded soul. I felt my spirits rise for the first time since I’d landed in Cuba. Some potshots came our way, but nothing like the hail of lead earlier.
Then I heard a surprised grunt close behind me. Right afterward came a groan and the thud of a body hitting the ground. I spun around to see what had happened. Surrounded by hundreds of men surging forward toward the enemy hill, Law and I stood there, stunned.
Rork and Major Fortuna were facedown on the ground.
27
Heat of Battle
San Juan Heights, Cuba
Friday Afternoon, 1 July 1898
WE ROLLED THEM BOTH over. The small hole in the center of Fortuna’s forehead precluded any hope of his survival. Just like old Noveno, the major was dead before his body hit the ground.
“Leave him. He’s gone,” I told Law. “We’ll bury him and Noveno later. Help me with Rork. I think he’s still alive.”
It was hard to tell for sure. At first, Rork looked dead too. We stretched him out carefully. I put my ear to his mouth, listening for breath. Another flurry of Spanish shots rang out. I couldn’t hear Rork breathing above that noise, but I could feel his chest move, slowly. His head began to tremble slightly. His face was a frightening sight, corpselike, bloodless. But his forehead wasn’t cold; it was very hot. His eyes were rolled back. I felt his pulse; it was racing.
I searched him for bullet holes or shrapnel gashes but found no apparent wound or blood. As I probed his groin, he twitched angrily and cursed me in a mixture of English and Gaelic.
“Where’s he shot?”
asked Law, kneeling beside me.
“I don’t think he is. Maybe heatstroke,” I answered. I passed my hand in front of Rork’s open eyes, but they weren’t focusing on it.
“Sean, can you hear me?” I shouted urgently into his ear, worried about apoplexy of his heart. I could handle violent wounds, but I knew nothing about treating heart failure.
“Peter?” he mumbled pitifully in a soft voice, like a little boy. In the general commotion around us I faintly heard him say, “I can’t … see you. It’s so … bright … sun’s in me eyes.”
Law moved to put his shadow over Rork’s face. My friend’s eyes finally focused on me. He reached out his right hand. “Peter?”
“I’m here, Sean.”
“They get me?”
“Can’t find a wound. I think the sun got you.”
He took in a deep breath. Then his hand gripped mine hard. “The sun, you say? I’m laid low by the bloody friggin’ sun? Sweet Jaysus, uv’ all the friggin’ Mick luck.”
“We’ll take care of you, Sean. Rest easy, my friend.”
Rork’s hand gripped me even tighter as he suddenly came fully to and realized he was on the ground near a dead trooper. He hadn’t seen Fortuna. “Nay, can’t be lollygaggin’ here in the midst’uv a battle. The men’ll think me a bloody idler.”
“Be quiet. You’re in no shape to do anything but rest. We’re going to cool you down in the pond. That’ll make you feel better.”
I turned to Law. “Help me get his clothes off and carry him into that water.”
Rork didn’t like my idea. “You’re gonna do what?”
“Just shut the hell up, Rork, and help us get your uniform off.”
“Nay, ’tis unbecomin’ an’ I’ll not be doin’ that.”
“Rork, help me get your damned trousers off before I get shot!”
Rork grunted something nasty and started unbuttoning his trousers. I heard the Gatlings resume their firing. Soldiers in the valley cheered again.
Honoring the Enemy Page 17