Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  Lieutenant Law looked at the fetid pond and shook his head doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be better if we took Chief Rork back to the hospital, sir?”

  Damn all! First Rork, now the Marine. Why can’t anyone follow a simple friggin’ order! Holding my temper in check I explained, “It’s too far away, Mr. Law. Rork’s burning up inside, so we’ve got to get him cooled off right away. The swamp water’s a little cooler than the air temperature. After that, we’ll get him into the shade of the ledge. His wet skin in the shade will cool him faster.”

  Law stopped hesitating. We dragged Rork’s trousers down and got his shirt off as he lay there perplexed, his hands shielding his face from the sun. It took several minutes of fumbling effort. Fortunately, the enemy’s firing had dwindled considerably by then, for our soldiers were near the top of the hill. One of them was frantically signaling to the Gatling guns with wigwag pennants to cease firing so the Americans could make the final charge.

  Even with our men near the top of the heights, a few Spanish shots landed near us as Law and I dragged Rork into the swampy water. His stark white torso and sunburned face and arms made an easy target against the dark green scum floating on the water’s surface. Great gobs of green scum clung to us as we lowered Rork into the mess.

  “I’ll hold his head up, and you push his body under,” I told Law. “We’ll hold him here for five minutes, then run with him for the shade.”

  “Whoa, this is colder than it looks!” Rork blurted out when we put his body under the warm water.

  We should have kept him there for far longer than five minutes, but we were in the open. The dead around us were a grisly incentive to hurry. The flies that rose from the water were getting in my eyes.

  “Your face is bleeding, sir,” said Law.

  I wiped my free hand across my cheek and looked at the red smear. The wounds I’d gotten in late April at the battle of Isabela had reopened once again, but they were minor compared with Rork’s life-threatening condition.

  “Not important,” I told Law. “Three more minutes in this water, then we run to the shade with him.”

  Bullets impacting near us meant nothing by then, just another part of the sights and sounds of chaos. I had no idea of time as we stood in the waist-deep water, no thought to check my watch, which fortunately was in my breast pocket. Time disappears in battle. I’d said three minutes, but I wasn’t counting. At some point I simply said, “Now!” and we heaved Rork up and headed for the hillside.

  Several hundred men must have passed by us in those minutes after Rork and Fortuna fell, but no one helped us. They had their own troubles. We fell repeatedly as we lost our grip on Rork’s wet skin. I remember swearing bitterly at Law for dropping Rork’s legs.

  At last we got him to the shade of the rock. The sun was starting to lower in the western sky, expanding the rock’s shadow. Several wounded men were there calling for water.

  The shooting from both sides slowed even more. The Gatlings had shifted their fire somewhere else. As the three of us lay there trying to catch our breath, I tried to figure out what to do next about Rork.

  Law raced back to the pond and brought back several soaked rags to spread over Rork’s face and chest to help cool him down. I didn’t ask where he’d found the filthy rags. He dashed out again to bring back Rork’s weapon and uniform, and the seabag. By then the wet rags seemed to have done some good, for my friend’s face was less flushed. He sat up on an elbow.

  “Here’s your canteen, Sean. Get some water inside you.”

  “Aye, sir. That I will, just as soon as me bones’re covered up respectably.”

  “This is one hell’uva time to be shy, Rork.”

  “Captain, ’tis embarrassin’ for a senior petty officer such as meself to be out here with nary a stitch on an’ no blood to show for it. Good Lord, sir, people’ll think me gone daft, or a lily-livered faker!”

  “You are daft, you old coot. Just follow orders for once in your life and drink the friggin’ water first. Then we’ll get you back in uniform!”

  He glared at me but followed my orders. I took my own advice and swigged water from my canteen. Taken from the body of a Spanish infantry officer by the Mambis, it was a large canvas bag bigger than the metal canteens the Americans carried. It had been presented to me with great solemnity when I’d first reported to García’s headquarters. I was told the canvas bag made far less noise when moving through the jungle than the American version, something I’d found to be true.

  My intention was to imbibe only half the water, but only a quarter of it was left when I forced myself to stop. My hands were shaking, and I wondered how close I had been to sunstroke myself.

  Two more cavalry troopers came into the shade and collapsed among the soldiers. One of them was holding his ear, trying to stop the blood pouring over his fingers. A stretcher party arrived with a man, dropped him off, then headed out again. The space under the ledge was getting crowded.

  “Go and find out what’s going on out there, then report back to me,” I said to Law. “I’ll start getting Rork’s uniform back on him.”

  Law took off up the hill as I began pulling on Rork’s trousers, a difficult task. He is a big man, they were wet, and my efforts put me in some rather uncomfortable poses. The trousers were about to his knees when Rorked winked at me.

  “Ooh, methinks you’re a bit slow on this. Why, I’ve known several wee lasses that could do the job in the opposite direction in half the time. Remember that one on the island in Vietnam?”

  I did indeed. “Hell, Rork, I thought you were sick and about dead. Damned if you’re not just a giant Irish pain in my ass,” I retorted, glad his sense of humor had returned. “Now drink more water and help get this stuff on. And don’t ever scare me like that again!”

  “Aye, sir. Sorry about me fallin’ out like that. An’ now, we’d best be gettin’ back to the business at hand here. Feelin’ fit as a fiddle again, I am, so let’s get this job done.”

  He gave me a determined gaze to cover his lie. But I’d already decided Rork’s war was over. “No, you’re going to the rear, Sean.”

  At that point the men in the shade of the outcropping were treated to a farcical scene. Summoning some hidden source of strength, Rork got to his knees, growling ferociously, then stood up at full attention. His trousers fell down, and he stood there with them about his ankles and not a stitch on anywhere else.

  Bringing his right hand up to salute, he indignantly bellowed out, “Captain Wake, I’ll have you know you’re speakin’ to a United States Navy chief petty officer with thirty-seven years in Navy blue, an’ there’s more fight still left in me than any ten o’ those Spaniardo bastards on yonder hill. So let’s stop caterwaulin’ about how hot the friggin’ sun is an’ get this job done in proper naval fashion, shall we? An’ by the bloody way, I’m still a better shot than you are, an’ I always will be, so you’ll damn well be needin’ the likes o’ this ol’ salt right alongside you—sir!”

  Lieutenant Law returned just as the crowd of wounded soldiers howled at Rork’s speech. The lieutenant stood there dumbstruck at the sight of Rork, naked as a newborn with green slime dripping from his hair, yelling at me. Apparently he’d never seen an enlisted man yell at an officer.

  I gave up my well-intentioned attempt to classify Rork as a casualty. “Oh, hell, you win, you grumpy old bastard. Get back in proper uniform, Chief Rork. You look positively silly standing there buck naked, and in front of the Army, no less.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” His attempt to quickly haul his trousers up made him stumble, which got the Army crowd heckling the Navy once again. With stubborn effort, Rork finally pulled up his own trousers, refusing Law’s help.

  Once he was squared away, Rork sat down beside me and asked, “Where’s Major Fortuna?”

  “Dead, Sean. Mauser round in the forehead. Same time you dropped.”

  “Oh, no. Not him too …” Rork let out a long sigh that conveyed a lifetime of woe. “Had big hopes for the
major’s future, I did. An’ now Cuba’s lost another good man.”

  “Yes, a damned shame, like so many others.” I wearily looked up at the Marine. “Mr. Law, what did you find out?”

  “They’ve taken the hill, sir,” he reported. “Our colors are flying at several places along the crest. I also heard that Lawton finally won over there at El Caney and his men are heading here to reinforce us. Not sure, but I think I saw them several miles off in the distance.”

  San Juan Heights and El Caney are ours? Is the battle over? I allowed myself a moment of mental relaxation. “Well, some good news, finally. We’ll go and report in to General García.”

  Then I stood and looked down at them. “But first, gentlemen, we’ve got a sad duty to perform …”

  28

  Facing the Sun

  San Juan Heights, Cuba

  Friday Afternoon, 1 July 1898

  FORTUNA’S BODY WAS WHERE we’d left it near the pond, already covered with flies. I went through his pockets to retrieve his personal effects. There wasn’t much, just a crude sketch map of the Spanish defenses of Santiago and a small cotton pouch. Inside were a crucifix, a crinkled photograph of a young woman and a baby boy, a toothbrush, and a medal of Saint Michael, the patron of soldiers. Folded with the photograph was a six-month-old letter from his wife. Stained and moldy, it described his son Jorge’s first steps, admonished him to watch over old Noveno, and ended with a reminder that their bed waited for him at home. Except for the map, which I kept for myself, I put everything back in the pouch, which went into our seabag.

  Then I quietly said a prayer for a distant young widow and her baby.

  After that I studied Rork for signs of relapse. Though he was moving slowly—we all were by then—he seemed to have recovered. I found some sticks, a plank, and a potato vine to fashion together a cross. Rork scratched a crude epitaph on the plank with his marlinespike:

  MAJOR ALFONSO FORTUNA

  Cuban Liberation Army

  Born 1865. Died in battle 1 July 1898

  A Hero of Free Cuba

  Law found a small shovel among the various infantry equipment discarded during the battle and dug the grave, which I had carefully outlined to be perpendicular to the setting sun.

  When Law asked me why, I repeated what José Martí had said to me before he went to fight in Cuba. “Fortuna was a good man, too, Lieutenant—one of the best—and like Martí he died facing the sun. So we’ll make sure he’s buried that way.”

  As we gently lowered the body into the grave, a wave of sorrow for Cuba’s loss swept over me. I’d held my composure until then, but at that moment all the years of misery, all my dead friends, proved too much for me. I couldn’t stop it. I stood there weeping.

  Thirty feet away, a line of American infantry from the reserve depot back at Siboney trudged by heading for the front lines on San Juan Heights. Many stared at us. They hadn’t fought yet, and obviously they hadn’t been in Cuba very long. They were still clean, still burdened with all their issued equipment. They didn’t have that tired stare out to nowhere.

  Ignoring them, the three of us stood in a line facing the grave. I offered a simple eulogy.

  “We gather here to bury the mortal remains of a good man, Major Alfonso Fortuna, of the Cuban Liberation Army. A valiant son of Free Cuba, an outstanding soldier, and our trusted friend. It was an honor to serve alongside Alfonso as we faced the foe. We will never forget him.

  “Now the ordeal and pain of war have ended for Alfonso. He sits on the right side of Saint Michael, joining his fellow soldiers and his hero, José Martí. Dear Lord, please take good care of his widow and his baby, and please watch over those of us still in this battle. Amen.”

  Several of the troops passing by made the sign of the cross; others removed their hats. We quietly walked away toward the riverbank by the first hill, the one Rork had named Kettle Hill. After searching for some time we found Noveno’s body. It had been dragged under a bush. His simple trousers had no pockets. He carried no possessions. I wondered if he’d ever had any, for I knew nothing about the man’s past except that he had some relationship with Major Fortuna’s family. I wished I’d asked when I had the chance.

  Law and I carried the corpse back to Fortuna’s grave. Rork lashed together another cross while Law and I dug the new grave. Noveno was also buried facing the sun, right next to his major, but his epitaph had a far less personal description. I didn’t even know his full Christian name. I said the same prayer over the grave.

  Then we joined the column of troops heading up the captured hill in the dimming light. I planned to head along the front line and try to find García’s headquarters somewhere about a mile or two off to the right. Roosevelt’s regiment should be in our path, so I decided to check on him on the way. I hadn’t seen him for hours, since his charge up the heights. After witnessing his reckless behavior in battle I prepared myself for the worst.

  Once on the crest, I saw a line of American regimental colors floating in the breeze, stretching more than a mile and a half, from one end of San Juan Heights to the other. Out on the right, or northern, end of the battlefield, two columns were marching toward us from the northeast—Lawton’s troops and García’s troops, the Cubans in the lead.

  Directly behind us, a long column of infantry reinforcements was coming across the valley from El Pozo Hill, interspersed with supply and artillery columns. Engineers were working on a crude bridge over the San Juan River. I surmised that by morning, the hard-won American position on the heights would be consolidated, strengthened, and extended. It was a reassuring view in the gathering dusk.

  Occasionally a shot came from the west side of the heights, which the Spanish still controlled, but overall there was a quiet weariness in the air. Even the sergeants spoke softly as they got their men situated along the hilltop. The calm was dense, palpable—a mixture of grief and apprehension.

  Looking west, I had a much better view of the Spanish lines than I’d had on my reconnaissance several days ago, or from our distant perusal back at El Pozo this morning, or even from Kettle Hill this afternoon. A chill went through me as I realized the true nature of the day’s victory.

  Our success was neither complete nor even likely permanent. In fact, the American army was in a precarious position, for it had captured only the first line of defenses on the San Juan Heights. Even with the reinforcements coming up to our front line, a determined and overwhelming Spanish assault on a single point would have no difficulty pushing us off the heights.

  Three hundred yards to the west I could see another two complete lines of Spanish defenses echeloned on slightly higher elevations. They had even more trenches, blockhouses, and artillery emplacements than the first line we’d worked so hard to overrun.

  I sat there stunned. Casualty rates would be disastrously high in a frontal assault. The Spanish were making the yanqui invaders pay dearly for every inch of territory we gained. Red-and-gold banners of Spain undulated defiantly above their positions, glowing in the final copper rays of the sun.

  “The generals won’t order an assault on that,” said Law, more to himself than to us. “They’ll bring up the siege guns and settle in to bombard the Spanish, then starve them out. Might take a month, maybe two.”

  “Afraid there’s no time for that, Mr. Law,” I replied. “The siege guns aren’t even ashore yet, and fever season has set in. We’ll lose half our men to disease in the next month if we stay out here in the swamps. Both the Spanish and General Shafter know that.”

  Rork groaned and sat down on a rock. “Bad way to go, death by crappin’ an’ pukin’ your guts out from a tropic crud. Nary a touch o’ glory in that, Mr. Law. Lads, if such a thing happens to yours truly, just bury me achin’ ol’ bones back at the beach—with me looking out to sea, mind. I don’t fancy seein’ this damned Cuban hellhole for all eternity.”

  He rubbed his stomach. “But we ain’t dead yet, are we? So a wee bit o’ food would be nice right about now, sir. We’ve had not
hing since afore sunrise.”

  “Yes, I’m starving too. Maybe Theodore or his people will have some food when we find them.”

  Rork swayed a bit but quickly recovered, looking to see if I had noticed. Then he lightened his tone. “Aye, now there’s a grand idea, sir. That lad Roosevelt surely does know how to eat civilized, even in the bloody jungle.”

  And so we resumed our trek, heading north along the line of trenches, now filled with Americans grimly staring to the west. The sun disappeared, and the humid tropical night settled over the uneasy battlefield. Over the mountains in the distance clouds were forming. But the air above us only had some small clouds racing along on the last of a sea breeze. Stars emerged to carpet the sky.

  Anywhere else, this would have been a romantic evening.

  29

  Perfumed Moonlight

  San Juan Heights, Cuba

  Friday Evening, 1 July 1898

  WHEN WE FOUND HIM, Roosevelt was sitting on a camp stool. He stood and took a close look at my face, squinting through his specs. “Peter, you look terrible. Have your old wounds reopened?”

  I’d forgotten about them. “It’s nothing. They opened up a bit today,” I replied as we sat down on the ground next to a small fire. Nearby was Theodore’s tent, already stained and torn.

  “Say, where are the Cuban gentlemen who were with you?” he asked.

  “Killed in the attack,” I explained. “Noveno went down in front of Kettle Hill. Major Fortuna was hit at the pond.”

  He removed his spectacles. “So very sorry to hear that, Peter. Good men, those two. Noveno was quite a scout. And Major Fortuna was a Harvard man, if I recall correctly. A sad loss for his people. They’ll need men like him to run this country someday.” He paused before adding, “We all lost a lot of good men today.”

  There was nothing for me to say. We sat in quiet and somber reflection. It didn’t last long, for Roosevelt was as hungry as everyone else on the hill. “Let’s eat. You can go find General García later.”