by Tony Roberts
The date for the attack was for the First of July, and Casey took a look at the defenses they would need to carry that afternoon when he was on sentry duty on top of El Pozo Hill. The jungle ran from the foot of the hill to the narrow and winding San Juan River, probably twelve to fifteen hundred yards from where he was, and he guessed they would approach up the Camino Real, crossing the Las Guamas Creek and then they would be in the open. A narrow strip of land separated the creek with the San Juan river and even from where he was he could see the small bridge that crossed the watercourse, right under the shadow of Kettle Hill.
The Spanish had erected barbed wire fencing on both sides of the San Juan River to the right of this bridge, the further line being partway up Kettle Hill, then there were the final entrenchments at the top. It would be tough, but they would have to take the line of hills in order to dominate Santiago. Once they had the ridge secure he couldn’t see the Spanish keeping the city; their position would be untenable.
When Casey had been debriefed by Roosevelt that morning, the officer had grumpily thanked him for his efforts but told him that since things had changed, his duties would now be to help lead the men up the hill during the attack. The newspaper men had asked him a few questions about the scouting trip but Casey, determined to make himself as uninteresting as possible, merely gave them a sketchy outline and he omitted much of what had happened, only confirming that he had run from the Spanish at the end when he had been rescued. Hardly the actions of a hero. He was pleased to see their looks of disappointment, and maybe they would lose interest in him now.
There was one more piece of news that Corrigan gave him. “Ol’ Kid is bein’ shipped back Stateside. They’re takin’ the unwell and sick back to Florida away from this goddamned place.”
“Good thing, too,” Casey nodded. “Won’t do him any good remaining here in this heat and environment.” He hoped Billy Root would recover once he was safely back in the States and receiving better treatment.
The attack was scheduled for two days’ time so they began to build themselves up in preparation for the action. Bullets, rations, equipment. Guns were cleaned and checked, boots checked, belts tested. No good running up the hill and your belt suddenly breaks and your trousers are down around your ankles.
It was the early morning of the First of July that they were all gathered into their platoons and told of the plan. It was unimaginative. A straight forward assault up the hills. No flank attacks, or anything complicated. Casey chewed on his lower lip. It was going to be a costly attack; direct attacks into the teeth of a dug-in enemy always were.
The division commander, Major-General Young, had fallen sick so in the re-shuffle of the command chain, Colonel Wood took over command of the brigade from Young’s replacement, which left Roosevelt as commander of the Rough Riders. Roosevelt was happy with that; he knew that the battle would be run by the men on the spot, and he would be as a result very influential on the coming fight. A chance to shine and raise his profile.
They quickly breakfasted on hardtack – the ubiquitous biscuit – and coffee, and then began to move up the road in a huge column, still at this point under the shelter of the trees. Firing off to the north could be heard, and this was the start of the fight for El Caney.
Then the guns that had been wheeled up onto El Pozo Hill began to shell the blockhouse on the top of the San Juan Heights. The soldiers all looked to one another. This was going to get very serious now.
It wasn’t long before the response from the Spanish came, and it was deadly accurate. A huge explosion rent the air and earth, trees and men erupted off the ground. A direct hit! Men were screaming and blood painted the nearby trees. “Shit!” Corrigan grimaced, a hand on his hat. “This is goddamned dangerous!”
Casey resisted the urge to laugh in response. What else was war? All very well watching a war from afar, or reading about it in the safety of a home. All so different close up and intimate with it.
Now they set off again, and marched four abreast down the road, but the shelling continued. “Hell,” someone complained, “these damned Spaniards are too damned accurate!”
“They know the area,” Casey replied tensely, “so they know exactly where to shoot. We’re sitting ducks on this road.”
What was worse, he discovered, were the bottlenecks where the road narrowed and they had to crowd into two abreast to get through. Here the shelling was at its worse, and Spanish sharpshooters shot at the troops who couldn’t see who was firing at them or from where. It was chaotic, and the men milled about in confusion, with more bodies falling to the ground, adding to the log-jam. Troops were sent out wide to drive the Spanish away, but even so, the shelling carried on, causing casualties all down the road for as far as the Spanish could fire.
Casey and Corrigan kept their heads down and pushed on with the column through the trees. They passed through the area under fire and they breathed with relief that their number of hit hadn’t been worse. “Why don’t they keep shootin’ at us now we’re closer?” one of the soldiers asked, looking wildly around, worried that at any moment more shots would rain down on them.
“Cuz we’re too close now,” Sergeant Holland replied. “Their guns can’t depress any lower than they are. They’re on the hill and they’ve got to crank their barrels low to get at us. Once we’re close to the foot of the hill we’re below their reach.”
“Aw, heck, that’s good news!” the soldier grinned.
“Yeah, so now its just the rifles of the infantry we gotta worry about,” Holland grunted.
The soldier’s grin vanished and he said no more.
Casey was close to the front; the sergeant wanted him up ahead, partly because he recognized Casey as being the best corporal of the three under him, and also to make sure he got the rough end of any deal that came their way. There was something about Long that made Holland uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but that man knew far too damned much. Too much someone with his background and age ought to. It made him mistrust him, so if fighting broke out and he was at the front, then he might become a casualty, and Holland was half of the mind not to get worried about that.
The jungle thinned and the hill before them came into view. The men were waved to take cover and crawl to the edge and take a look at the terrain before them. Casey went with his squad, Corrigan just to his left, and on elbows and knees pushed through the last of the undergrowth. Here was one last untidy patch of long grass and leafy bush, and he lay behind it, peering at the grassy open ground.
“Cross the creek and wait on the banks of the river,” Holland’s voice came to them.
Casey twisted around to look at the sergeant. “What, out in the open?”
“Orders.”
“Shit.” Nonetheless, he did so, even if he thought it ridiculous. “Alright boys, let’s get to the river bank.”
He stumbled to his feet and plowed out through the last of the grass and leaves. His skin crawled as he came fully into full view of the defenders on top of the hill before him. Maybe two hundred yards it was to the river bank, and barbed wire was strung out just before it. “Damn it to hell,” he muttered and began zig-zagging at a run. “Do like me!” he snapped and forged ahead, the others following.
Shots rattled out from the hill and a couple of men in blue fell to the ground. Casey flung himself to the ground and worked a round into the chamber. He knelt and squinted along the barrel, peering up at the hill. He could make out a few figures, in their fire pits and foxholes, and knew he wasn’t going to hit anyone, but he would make life uncomfortable.
Men went stumbling past him and he waited until he had a clear field of fire then squeezed off a shot. Up. He ran again, side to side, gripping his rifle tight. A shot kicked up a fountain of dirt close to his right foot. Dodge right, then go to change to the left, but then go right again. Anything to fool anyone who might be drawing a bead on him.
The barbed wire came into view directly ahead and a few men were lying by it, shooting
up at the top of the hill that dominated their field of vision. Casey threw himself down and rested his barrel on the second strand from the bottom. Corrigan landed next to him with a curse. “What genius thought of throwing us out here exposed?”
“Roosevelt, or Wood. Whatever,” Casey tipped his hat further back away from his forehead. “Keep those bastards’ heads down, boys!” he hollered, firing up at the Spanish.
“We can’t hit shit from here, man,” one of the buffalo soldiers declared. It seemed the Tenth had arrived.
“Shoot anyway,” Casey replied. “Helps to put them off.”
Shots blasted up at the Spanish but the shooting from up high was persistent and accurate. Three more Americans were hit. “This is dumb,” Casey snapped. “Push this fence down!” he ordered, taking hold of a post and shoving hard.
The others followed suit and the fence, in this section at least, toppled over forward. “Come on,” Casey got up, bent double. “To the river bank.” He’d seen it had more cover there with long clumps of grass and a few bushes, and they were closer to the foot of the hill so the Spanish would have to expose themselves a little more if they were to shoot at them.
A whole line of soldiers were now lying on the bank across from the hill, trying to find whatever illusory cover existed there. At least along the bank they weren’t getting hit as much. The troops further back were getting more attention. The Spanish troops mauser rifles were very accurate and fired much more rapidly than the Americans’ rifles.
“Shit, they got some special rapid-fire weaponry up there?” Corrigan complained.
“No, just better rifles.”
“And I didn’t think they were worth a shit,” Corrigan grunted.
“They’re good troops, especially dug in.”
They cocked ears. To the north the shooting from El Caney was intensifying. It seemed the Spanish there weren’t giving in easily. “No help from that direction then,” Casey muttered. “We’ll have to storm the hill alone.”
“Great. So what do we do after lunch?” Corrigan said.
Casey grinned, then took a look around. Most of the soldiers alongside him were Rough Riders, and the Buffalo Soldiers were behind, trying to burrow into the ground or shoot uphill. What they all needed was for an officer to do something, either order a charge or a retreat. To stay here would attract far too many casualties, and if they didn’t win today, the Spanish could well reinforce the hills to a point they couldn’t force them away.
“Hey!” someone suddenly exclaimed, pointing into the sky above the jungle behind them. “Look at that!”
They all twisted around to see a bright yellow observation balloon floating above the canopy of trees, a rope tethering it to a point on the ground below. Someone in command had decided to use this device to spot the Spanish positions much more accurately. Even as they watched, shells began raining down all around it.
“Stupid bastards!” Casey said with feeling, “they’re attracting every damned gun the Spanish have!”
“Might as well paint a target on the thing,” Corrigan added.
“And those poor souls in the trees around it. The road is right there.” It was true – for the shells were even more accurately hitting the American soldiers making their way up through the jungle. The balloon, instead of giving the American forces an advantage, was acting as a handy target for the Spanish.
Casey shook his head and turned his attention back to the hill before him. It was going to be a bitch, he knew that. He’d been in so many similar positions to this before, and there would be nothing to it but to go for it balls-to-the-wall and get up there as soon as you could and to hell with the chances of being hit.
The only blessing he could see was that the Spanish didn’t seem to have any of the new-fangled Gatlings with them. The US army had some, and they were the new weapon of mass death, spraying out a whole load of bullets like a fountain. He wouldn’t fancy attacking into the teeth of massed multiple shooters like them. If every army got those, then surely frontal attacks would become a thing of the past. Only idiots would send a mass wave to their deaths against those things. Rifles were bad enough…
He winced as a bullet struck the dirt in front of him. Damn! That was close. He wriggled back to the leafy plants that grew thickly on the bank. “Who’s been hit?” he asked.
“Riley. Got one in the leg,” one of the men said.
Casey wriggled over to Riley who had put a makeshift bandage around the wound. It was stained red. “Go get back to the medics if you can.”
“Hell, don’t wanna miss the show, Corp.”
“Riley, you ain’t gonna make it to the foot of the hill, let alone run up the goddamned thing.” Casey shook his head. All very brave, but dumb. “You’ll need that wound seen to before it goes bad, and then it might become too infected to save your leg. Now go!”
Riley nodded and inched his way out of the riverbank and across the long grass towards the jungle.
Casey turned around and surveyed the other men. “I don’t want any of you being dumb heroes, got it? You get hit, and you can’t move without a great deal of pain, then you get to the medics. If necessary get a buddy to help you back.”
There were answering grunts and rumbles from the soldiers. The ground from the jungle to the river was almost completely a carpet of men in blue, lying flat to try to reduce the chances of being hit. Men were lying dead amongst them, he knew, and they were sitting ducks here. He rolled onto his side and looked up at the hill. Every few seconds he saw a flash of a report of a rifle. “Come on,” he muttered to the sky, “get us up and at them!”
Finally, just after noon, Roosevelt lost his patience with the inactivity from the top. He demanded to be allowed to attack or lose his entire command to the Spanish sharpshooters. Permission was granted and he vaulted onto his horse with relief.
The men saw him coming out of the trees on horseback. Casey got to his knees. “Here we go!” he said out loud.
Roosevelt drew his pistol and waved at the hill. “Rough Riders!” he yelled, “come on, up and at ‘em!”
With a roar the 1st Volunteer Cavalry Regiment rose from their prone positions and began the assault on Kettle Hill.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Casey ran hard close behind Roosevelt. To right and left were men running fast, desperate to get to the foot of the hill, and then up at the Spanish. Bullets were flying through the air at them, and a man just to Casey’s right screamed and span around to hit the ground hard. Only the two units, the Rough Riders and the Buffalo Soldiers, were up and running, yelling like madmen, fear driving them on, while the other units lay and stared in amazement at them.
Then, almost as if it had been subconsciously ordered, these other units got to their feet. They were either not going to let the two regiments get the glory, or they wanted to help their buddies. Or maybe a bit of both. Whatever the case, the entire line of US troops was now up and charging.
The Spanish shot as fast as they could. Casey ran hard, clutching his rifle in his right hand, his left arm pumping to give him extra speed. Another man just to his left stiffened in agony and fell back.
Roosevelt rode on, pistol raised, striking a heroic pose. The men around him ran as fast as they could across the long grass, plunging through the shallow and narrow river, up the other side and along the grass towards the foot of the hill before them.
Another man collapsed, onto his face, and lay still. Casey gritted his teeth. This was crazy. Corrigan’s feet were thudding on the earth just behind Casey, and the eternal mercenary was glad the man was sensible enough to do that.
A shell exploded overhead, making them wince and duck involuntarily. Shrapnel splattered onto the ground but they kept on going. All Casey was concerned with now was getting up the hill and at the defenders. His breath sawed in and out of his mouth, his legs were working as hard as they could.
The heat was not as bad out in the open as in the trees, but it was hot enough. Another man clutched his face, stagg
ered two-three steps before slumping to the ground. “Come on, boys!” Casey roared, venting out some frustration and tension. “At ‘em!”
There came an answering cheer from the men left, right and behind. Now he was beginning to climb. The hill had a dip in it that protected them from the worst of the fire, but men were tumbling down all the same after being hit. A quick glance to his left. Corrigan was still there, sweat bathing his face, teeth gritted.
Casey’s legs were beginning to hurt. This was so insane! The cheering died away as men now used all their breath and strength to charge. A carpet of the fallen marked their progress, and there were fewer and fewer of them as they went up, getting closer and closer to the enemy.
Now it was a hundred yards to the top. The men of all the units were intermingled and Casey heard an officer trying to separate the units. Idiot! Get up at the top and forget protocol. He staggered up over a tussock of grass and saw a Spanish solider shooting downhill from his position, hitting one of the men to the left. Casey stood still, raised his rifle, aimed, and fired. The Spanish soldier clutched his shoulder and fell out of sight.
There was another barbed wire fence to get over, forty yards from the top. Casey saw Roosevelt ride his horse, Texas, up to it, but then the horse seemed to hit it and rear up in pain. The commander fell off his saddle and pick himself up, helped by his orderly, Henry Bardshar. Casey gritted his teeth again and pounded up, waving the men around him to follow.
One screamed and crashed back to roll away down the hill. Another bullet spat close to Casey’s ears and he winced. Now he was at the wire. Roosevelt was climbing it, and Casey, alongside, held down the top strand. “Go on, sir,” he breathed hard, “go show the regiment how it’s done!”
Roosevelt eyed him briefly. Impertinent bastard. But he did so, vaulting the fence, staggering on landing, then righting himself. “Come on!” he screamed at the men scrambling to get over the fence. “We’re nearly there!”
