An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  49

  When Minutes Seem Like Hours

  Isabela, Cuba

  Thursday night

  28 April 1898

  The worst times for a sailor or soldier facing battle are the moments beforehand. All has been prepared that can be prepared. There is nothing else to do but wait and think.

  I needed to be alone, yet I hated being alone, for I knew what it would bring. There is no sleep or true rest for the mind, for it cannot disconnect from the reality all around you. This is magnified when you are in command of others, for they have subordinated their very lives to your judgment. It is the ultimate expression of trust, and burden of command.

  Your mind becomes a machine powered by logic, cogitating over and over the probabilities of how things will unfold and how you will adjust to the enemy’s actions, to your own men’s failures. Then the self-interrogation begins: Did you think of everything which might happen? Have you prepared for unforeseen developments? Have you readied your men for them?

  When the probabilities have been thoroughly examined and answered, the mind moves on to more and more improbable potential occurrences, none of which have solutions. Doubts begin to form, sometimes coalescing into more tangible fear, which you dare not show outwardly, lest that precious and precarious bond of trust in your judgment be broken.

  Finally, when your psyche is in its weakest state, there are two basic questions which rise inside you. The ones you dread most of all.

  Will good men die because you became paralyzed by fear, unable to make a decision?

  Every commander faces this question. In my first action, thirty-five years earlier in the Civil War at the ironically named Peace River, I faced that question. I felt the fear, made the decisions, and afterward dealt with my guilt over the consequences. It was a victory, minor and unheralded, but men died because of my decisions. My men. Could I have done better? Would I in the future?

  I have been in similar situations many times since then. Each time it is the same. But after a while, you understand you will not panic, not be paralyzed. You will get through the horror. Though some of your men will die and others be maimed, the mission will be accomplished. They will do their job. You will do yours.

  But one thing never fades in its intensity or its effect upon you, no matter how many times it is experienced. It is the second question, and it also comes during that quiet time before battle, when minutes seem like hours.

  You look at these men who trust you. And you contemplate, which ones will die because of their trust?

  So it was for me at Isabela, Cuba, on a calm spring night. I was fifty-eight years old, thirty-five years of which had been consumed with the naval and intelligence service of my country around the world. During those years, I’d faced many enemies, knew the indescribable horrors, had scars all over my body, and survived everything which anyone had ever thrown at me. One would think I would’ve built some measure of immunity.

  Still, I questioned.

  Who among these decent men—my men—were about to die?

  50

  Friend or Foe?

  Isabela, Cuba

  3:37 a.m., Friday morning

  29 April 1898

  The triple boom of cannon in the distance brought me out of my semi-consciousness.

  “It’s four or five miles away,” Rork reported as I struggled to stand. We’d been lying on blankets on the side of the road near the Colt machine gun, our ad hoc command post for the land defenses.

  I waited for the explosions of rounds impacting nearby. Nothing happened. More booms sounded, which I could register better now I was fully awake. They weren’t coming from the road to the south, where I’d been searching for flashes. They were somewhere behind us, near the offshore islands.

  “Spanish Navy . . . one of those Hontoria medium-caliber quick-firing guns,” decided Rork.

  Yeats and Mack were out at the cane field, controlling the sniper positions, the fougasse men, and the forward lookout post. I’d opted to stay the night at the machine gun since it was more central to the expected axis of attack than remaining on Kestrel at the wharf. Now I wished I was back on the ship, where I could see the bay.

  “Gunboat, offshore of the barrier islands,” I suggested as several more shots were heard.

  I swung my arm north toward them. “Near the entrance to the channel. Come on, Rork, let’s get back to Kestrel. Southby may have information.”

  To Lieutenant Gavin, executive officer of Falcon, and in command of the inner defensive line, I said, “Stay here and make sure the lookouts are sharp. This could be a diversion.”

  On Kestrel’s bridge we found Southby peering through binoculars. The gunfire had stopped, but he did have information. It was in the form of a signal lamp message from Harrier’s sailors at the observation post on Cayo Maravillas, which had just been relayed to the flagship.

  Enemy gunboat chasing unknown fast small vessel toward channel.

  “Except for the coaling rendezvous with our collier later on at Cay Sal Bank, we don’t have any other ships planned to be arriving here at Isabela, right, sir?” asked Southby.

  “Correct—we’re on our own for this entire operation. The vessel they’re chasing must be an American, though. Signal Harrier to stop her when she gets past the barrier islands and in the bay.”

  The sounds we heard next were one of Harrier’s four-pounder guns popping off two blank rounds quickly. From our vantage point up on the bridge deck, we could see over the roofs of the shacks and across the bay to the north. In the dark distance we could see the gun flashes. Lieutenant Farmore was stopping the intruder inside the bay, south of Cayo Maravillas. I surveyed the rest of the squadron to make sure they were in position. Falcon was in the channel itself, moving north toward Harrier and the suspect vessel while still blocking access to the port. Osprey guarded Norden, northeast of the town.

  A signal lamp flickered in our direction from Harrier. The duty signalman called out the message, unable to suppress his surprise at the contents.

  Vessel is New York press dispatch boat. Reporters aboard request permission to enter port.

  “Well, I admit, that’s a new one on me,” uttered Southby.

  “Me too,” I said. Of all the things I’d worried about and planned for, this wasn’t one of them. How the hell did they know about our operation? Who else knew? The New York press meant one of the Pulitzer or Hearst jingo-spouting papers. Which in turn, meant trouble of unknown dimensions looming for me, no matter what I decided to do.

  I knew many naval officers who would jump at the chance to have their exploits chronicled, and magnified, in such famous newspapers, but not me. Reporters could offer us nothing in tangible assistance, and would in fact end up being a distraction to my men when all hands had to be focused on the impending attack. There was absolutely no logical reason to allow them into Isabela. They needed to leave so we could get our work done.

  That choice, though logical, wouldn’t work either. I couldn’t very well send fellow Americans back out the way they came in. Not with the Spanish Navy waiting to capture them. They’d be treated as spies and executed.

  “Send the damned fools here to Kestrel,” I ordered Southby. “I’ll decide what to do with them then. Too bad this yacht doesn’t have a brig.”

  While I was digesting this new development, the starboard lookout called out, “Rifle shots several miles to the south, sir. Sounds like volleys.”

  Rork rushed across to the other bridge wing, followed by Southby and me. The shots were very distant. No flashes could be seen, being hidden by the jungle. I heard a louder rumble, a volley. It was followed by continuous pops. Then they got more sporadic and ended.

  Rork said what I was thinking. “Methinks that’s Major Barida’s battalion, sir. They’re in a fight, at least four miles down the road. The volleys’re Spaniardo Mausers. Higher velocity. More o’ a p
ing to the sound. The other shots sound like ’92 Springfields and Krags, like the exiles have.”

  “But the Cuban battalion should be much farther along toward Sagua Grande by now.” Southby said. “That’s right about where they were last seen yesterday afternoon, marching south.”

  He was right. I wondered if Barida’s battalion was retreating back to Isabela. It was beginning to appear so. This was a scenario I had anticipated. If true, we would have to re-embark the Cubans onto Norden, while fighting a rear guard action.

  “Captain Southby, please remain here and monitor the seaward defenses. Alert Norden to get steam up and weigh anchor. She may be needed to return to the wharf and take the battalion back aboard. Rork and I are going to check on the land defenses. If all is well, I’ll return to deal with the reporters. If the Spanish attack, lock them below someplace out of the way.”

  When Rork and I got to the defense line, Gavin said none of his men had seen anything. Except for the distant shots, which had ended, it was quiet. Then a light winked at us from down the road at the cane field, a message relayed from the observation post farther down the road, out of sight around the curve.

  The lieutenant quickly translated it. “OP reports men approaching, range one mile.”

  Were they Spanish attackers or Cubans in retreat? We would soon learn whether friend or foe was on the road heading toward us.

  51

  Let the Games Begin

  Isabela, Cuba

  5:33 a.m., Friday morning

  29 April 1898

  We waited for an hour, but there was no more word from our forward lookouts. There was also no attack.

  No light signal was sent out to Yeats to inquire what was happening, for the approaching men would see it as well, and thereby know our location. Instead, Yeats sent a runner back to us.

  I waited for the man to catch his breath, then nodded for him to begin. As a coal stoker, Wax wasn’t used to delivering messages to officers, much less a commodore, and he spoke slowly, trying to remember everything.

  “Aye, aye, sir. Mr. Yeats presents his respects and . . . he’s sorry . . . no, he regrets . . . to report the signal lamp dropped. Broke beyond repair, sir. He also says whoever’s out there in the dark has stopped coming toward us. They’re hiding somewheres down the road, sir. Mr. Yeats went out to the forward lookouts about half an hour ago. He didn’t see nothing, but he did hear wheels squeaking a ways off down the road. He thinks there’s Spanish troops hiding out there, not those Cuban fellows. He said to tell you he’ll send a wigwag arm signal when it gets light enough in a couple of minutes. Ah, that’s all he said to say, sir.”

  “Well done, Wax. You can return to Mr. Yeats, now. Tell him we are alert and ready. Thank you.”

  The report of squeaking wheels meant either supply wagons or artillery caissons. Either way, it was bad news.

  Rork pointed to the left, or east. “Getting’ light fast, sir.”

  Gavin nodded toward the cane field. “Mr. Yeats signaling us, sir.”

  Yeats was standing on the near side of a banana tree, so he was concealed from the enemy. I had to use my binoculars to see the exact arm gestures he displayed.

  Enemy coming.

  A bugle sounded to the south, then a loud cheer. Drums next. They were still south of the curve and out of my sight. It was all I could do to remain still and not dash off to the lookout post to see for myself.

  Yeats signaled in a flurry of gestures. I couldn’t make them out. My semaphore skills were woefully rusty. I glanced at Rork, but he shook his head.

  Gavin tactfully provided the translation. “Sir, the signal reads: Enemy battalion formation in sight. P . . . O . . . X . . . in front.”

  Gavin canted his head down in concentration, then looked up at me. “Single letters spelling Pox? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Diseased men?” proposed Rork.

  It suddenly struck me. I asked Gavin, “Could that have been a ‘W’ instead of an ‘X’? They’re similar at a glance.”

  “Oh hell, sir, yes, it could’ve been a ‘W.’ That makes sense. It’s POW—prisoner of war. Sorry, sir. Evidently, the Spanish have prisoners out in front of their attack. Cubans?”

  Right at this inopportune moment, two additional factors made their presence apparent to us, diverting our attention. The first was the whine of an artillery shell coming toward us. A split second later, the muffled report of a field gun arrived from somewhere out of sight down the road. The shell blasted a fountain of sand and rock among the shacks behind us, with shrapnel zinging through the air.

  Gavin, who had never been under artillery fire before—few were left in the navy who had been—was admirably calm as he called out to the sailors, “Steady on, men! Stay low and keep going about your work. Get that cheval de frise a little more to the left.”

  “That’s a bloody Brit army field piece, sir,” Rork grumbled quietly. “The 1885 model Ordnance gun, methinks. `Tis a breech-loading twelve-pounder, an’ fires an impact percussion fuse shell. Can tell that by the damned annoyin’ whine made by the fuze cap. Max range is two and a half miles. Effective directed range is one and a half. It must be `round the bend, out o’ sight.

  “An’ the Spaniardos don’t have any o’ those, sad to say. Nay, they use Kraut an’ Spanish Hontoria guns. But Major Barida had four o’ `em when he left here yesterday. Saw `em me own self, so methinks the enemy must o’ captured one o’ those. An’ probably some o’ the major’s men along with it.”

  Fear for Mario Cano instantly gripped me, tightening my throat, filling my mind with visions of my son-in-law trying to survive in battle, or in captivity.

  As he does with startling regularity, Rork read my thoughts. “Peter . . . Mario’s one hellova smart lad, the smartest in that Cuban crew, including Barida, so there’s nary a worry about him figurin’ how to get out o’ any mess he encounters. You know that, so put it out o’ your head. We’ve got our own problems to deal with here.”

  Rork, suddenly got a strange look on his face, staring at something over my shoulder. It was then the other additional factor arrived, in the form of an Ohio River drawl directed at me from the rear.

  “Well, well, I should’a known who’d be the head squid of this newly forsaken cluster of misbegotten fish out of water. What, the senile bastards in charge actually let you out of D.C. to go play war one more time, old man? Looks like your butt’s in the boiler now, don’t it? Serves you right for volunteering with another hopeless mission.”

  Several paces away, Gavin was directing sailors moving another cheval de frise. His head spun around when he heard the comment. In a rage, he headed for the speaker of such disrespect, but I held up a hand to stop him.

  Turning around to face the intruder, I said, “Why I’ll be damned to hell and gone. It’s none other than Colonel Michael Woodgerd, in the actual sneering flesh and rancid blood. I must say I’m not surprised at all to find you slinking around here. But alas, the virgins have all run off, so you’re out of luck again. What, waiting around to rob the dead?”

  Two strides got me up to a tall muscular man in a khaki tunic and trousers, the trimmed goatee pointing down from his chin balancing a long gray-haired ponytail trailing down his back. His left hand held a rucksack, and the right a Smith and Wesson revolver. An 1883 Martini-Henri rifle was slung over his left shoulder.

  He laughed. “That’s your best shot? You’re getting elderly, Wake. And your doddering Irish Mick lapdog’s looking pretty useless too.”

  As all around us thought their commodore and the arrogant stranger were about to go to blows, we embraced and I announced, “Michael Woodgerd, you incorrigible mercenary bastard—welcome to Cuba! By the way, whose side are you on in this thing? Should I shoot you, or put you to work?”

  Rork came over, punched Woodgerd in the center of his chest, and pulled a flask out of his back pocket. “
Dodderin’ an’ useless? We’ll be seein’ about that! Bloody damned good to see you, Colonel. Want a wee nip o’ Cuban aguardiente?”

  Woodgerd took a swig, then answered me. “Neither side offered me enough money, Peter. But some rich kid called Willie Hearst surely did, and I said yes. He owns some newspapers and thinks he’s the king rat. Hey, I’m a real live war correspondent now, sent down here to report on what you heroes are doing to bring freedom to the unwashed masses of this cesspit.

  “Came in on that speedy little boat this morning, along with some useless precocious brat from London who says he’s a writer. The skipper plugged the holes in his boat and got the hell out of here before the real shooting starts. The Limey went with him and I got stuck here. By the way, your man Southby is very inhospitable. Told me not to come ashore to have a look-see and put me in a room on your boat. He didn’t know I can pick locks.”

  Gavin fumed at hearing that, so I explained Woodgerd was a former colonel in the U.S. Army who had become a soldier of fortune, adding we were friends from half a dozen hellholes around the world, and that I rented my cottage in Alexandria from him. I left out the circumstances of exactly how Woodgerd left the army. Gavin wouldn’t understand.

  “So let me get this straight, you are a reporter?” I asked my friend. “I didn’t know you could even read and write, Michael. How the hell did you pull that off with somebody like Hearst?”

  His sniffed with a mock upper-class air. “You may recall I graduated from West Point, Commodore. I can write and occasionally have read a book. And, I might add, they trained me how to act like an officer and a gentleman. Hell, I even know which fork to use for salads. So how did I get the big bucks to come down here and mingle with you poor excuses for cannon fodder? I merely told Hearst over dinner at Delmonico’s he needed to send a real man to Cuba to get real news out of this war. Real men get paid real money.”