An Honorable War

by Robert N. Macomber

  In the previous day’s battle, the enemy never reached that area en masse and therefore Kestrel’s gun was not used. I hadn’t wanted to alert them to our ability to target there.

  Today was different, for the enemy was no longer completely ignorant of our dispositions. I had to assume the Spanish at some point had figured out our Quaker mine ruse. I also presumed they would, in an effort to stay away from any more possible fougasse traps in the roadside ditch, try to overwhelmingly attack along the opposite side of the road, through the cane field area.

  But that is not what I wanted them to do. I needed the enemy to make their assault straight down the road. Fifty yards before they would overrun our defense line, my plan required them to divert obliquely to their left—our right flank—where the seemingly abandoned flatbed railcar waited for them. Kestrel’s forward gun, the caltrops and chevals de frise in front of our lines, and the machine gun in the line, would stimulate that diversion.

  Kestrel’s two rounds exploding in the cane field would simulate actual mines going off right about when the Spanish skirmishers advanced through that area. This, I hoped, would renew enemy doubts as to whether all the mines they saw were real or fake, and thereby delay or deter them from using that route of attack. This ruse was not perfect, of course, for they could hear the report of the gun behind us on the ship, but it was the best I could do.

  We saw them moving through the field. It was done well, dashing for three seconds before going to ground, then dashing again, zigzagging closer and closer toward the corner where our men had been. These men were experienced soldiers, staying low and varying the timing and course of their runs.

  I turned to Gavin. “With five rounds, begin independent fire on the right flank.”

  Twenty sailors began peppering away at the enemy, with little effect at such a long range. It wasn’t done to hit the Spanish soldiers—it was done to provide enough noise to cover the sound of Kestrel’s gun firing and for harassment.

  The first round arrived just as one soldier leaped up and began his run. He disappeared in a fountain of sooty earth, emerging on his hands and knees before collapsing. Another soldier ran over to him and the second round impacted near where he had been. We could hear others telling each other to crawl out exactly the way they entered, the procedure for withdrawing from a mine field. The ruse worked. Gavin had his men cease fire.

  It wasn’t their only probe of our defenses. Over on the right side we couldn’t see them, but did faintly hear the rustle of a scouting party along the edge of the mangroves, near the fougasse ditch.

  A few minutes later, after their men withdrew from the cane field, the Spanish field gun captured from Barida fired four rounds into the fake mine field. It was an attempt to set off any other mines we had lurking there. I was further impressed with my adversary’s abilities.

  I remembered each caisson of Barida’s guns carried twenty rounds. They had already fired five the day before, and four recently, meaning they had eleven rounds left. Unless they procured more artillery, or more ammunition for the British-built gun they had, then we could withstand a bombardment. It would be costly, but we could withstand it.

  The Spanish commander began his barrage just as I completed the calculation of his remaining ammunition. The first shell impacted forty feet from me, sending a hail of hot metal shards in all directions, including mine. I was one of the few Americans standing, having walked over to the center of the line to see down the road better. A dozen red blooms spread across my faded blue cotton duck shirt and navy blue trousers, which I’d chosen in lieu of my eminently targetable tropical whites. Though small, the wounds hurt like hell and elicited curses that would’ve done Rork proud.

  “Character cuts—you were lucky, Peter. Damned fine shooting!” muttered Woodgerd, while admiring several of his own lacerations.

  In the next four minutes they fired six more, progressing from left over to our right, landing them exactly as the artillery manual taught, twenty feet behind our lines. Yelps, curses, groans, and screams erupted from the line as the men’s backs and legs were gouged by the shrapnel.

  Ten men were dragged away for a cursory examination by Kestrel’s cook in a shack a hundred feet to the rear. That unfortunate individual had been designated by Southby as the ad hoc hospital apprentice for the day. Several former deserters were among his patients, with Rork warning the others to stay in place, his revolver aimed their way.

  “Cavalry coming, sir,” reported Bosun Mack on the right flank, seconds after the field piece ceased fire. A troop of forty or fifty horsemen came around the curve of the road into view, quick-trotting in the seconds until they got to the cane field, then changing into a full gallop toward us.

  The bombardment began again, shells randomly landing every forty-five seconds along the same transverse line as before, nailing more men with the shards. Rork glanced over at me and held up five fingers. I nodded back in acknowledgment. The Spanish were now out of captured artillery ammunition—I hoped.

  Behind the cavalry were infantry at the quick-march but without music or drumbeats. Through my binoculars, I saw their regimental flag and knew we were in dire straits. It wasn’t Arce’s regiment’s banner, a standard design common among most of the regiments. This one was much larger, the golden flag illuminated by the morning sun, accentuating the angry lion rampant of the ancient kingdom of Leon, topped by the crown of Spain.

  We were facing some of Spain’s best—the 38th Infantry, the famous Leon Regiment. There were a thousand men in the 38th and all were veterans.

  Confined at the curve by the narrow lane of road and track between the mangroves on either side, they fanned out upon reaching the cane field, their light blue tunics contrasting with the dark green forest behind them. They were not in ranks or formation as Arce’s men the day before, but in loose skirmish order, with every bayonet fixed and every rifle of the soldiers in front levelled at our line.

  I’d forgotten how fast professional cavalry advanced at the gallop—my last experience facing them had been at Peru in 1881. Thirty seconds after first appearing, they had covered a quarter-mile and were now halfway between the cane field and our line. As I registered this, a bugle abruptly sounded and they transformed into race horses, every rider leaning forward in grave concentration, pistol hand outstretched and aiming, every mount stampeding toward us. There were no yells, no more commands or bugles. The only thing heard from them was the increasing thunder of the hooves.

  They hit the scattered caltrops and several horses stumbled and fell. Their riders were trampled by the others, but the remaining cavalrymen kept coming.

  Two horses went down at the tripwire across the road. The others spotted it and leaped clear, never slacking the pace, their masters never taking their eyes off us. They seemed inhuman man-beasts, which nothing could stop.

  “Steady, men. Take aim and wait until the command . . .” I called out over the din, as much to myself as the sailors.

  That devilishly omnipotent thunder filled our senses, vibrating the ground below me like an earthquake. It was impossible to focus on anything other than those dead-hearted behemoths, enveloped in a cloud of dust, coming to kill us.

  The chevals de frise, obliquely angled in front of the left side of our line, fulfilled their deterrence duty, for the charging Spanish gravitated away from that side and headed for our center and right.

  I fought the primordial need to flee from this scene of horror. Out of the corner of my eye, I briefly could tell others were nervously glancing around them to see if anyone was running. No one was.

  I raised my shotgun and aimed at a Spaniard with chevrons. Next to him, a comrade was charging directly for me, the soldier’s eyes fixed on me.

  As they got to within a hundred yards, the sound of their charge became an overwhelming tumult, and I knew I would have to yell the next command as loud as I could to be heard. Gavin looked at me. Woodg
erd came over and stood beside me, his Martini-Henri rock steady at the shoulder firing position. Rork’s shotgun was trained at an onrushing Spanish officer whose saber was levelled right back at him.

  At fifty yards range I shouted the order. “Entire line . . . by volley . . . FIRE!”

  The roaring cavalry drowned out even the blast of the fifty-gun volley. For an instant, I wondered if my men even heard the order. The horses kept charging as if nothing had happened. A shot of panic bolted through me.

  But my men had heard and fired, and had hit their marks. It was only the momentum of half a ton of each horse moving at twenty miles an hour, even after they and their riders had been hit, which gave the illusion. Incredibly, the momentum carried the war horses another hundred feet until they began to stumble and fall. Cavalrymen were thrown, but most recovered and emptied their revolvers at us while crouched behind their horses’ twitching bodies.

  Only a handful of the Spanish got close to our lines. I called out, “Second volley . . . Fire!”

  With that, the last of the Spanish cavalry collapsed only a few feet in front of the sailors. The thunder ended. Scattered Spanish pistol shots still popped at us.

  “Independent fire at the enemy still moving out there . . . Fire!”

  The cavalrymen’s shots ended. Even the wounded horses stopped screaming in pain, for the sailors had put them out of their misery. Silence descended like a suffocating invisible cloud. It had been very close, too damned close. I saw my right hand trembling. I had to grip my shotgun again to stop it.

  “Cease fire! Mr. Gavin, report casualties and available ammunition as soon as you can.”

  “Well done, Peter,” said Woodgerd, without his usual acerbic wit. “And now, the grand finale is about to start.”

  He pointed down the road, where the dust cloud was clearing. “Take a look out there.”

  The Spanish infantry had reached the cane field, stretched from the mangroves on the left across to the mangroves on the right. I climbed an orange crate and studied the enemy through my binoculars. They were endlessly arrayed, their flashing bayonets visible back up the road for as far as I could see. I descended from the depressing sight.

  Gavin suddenly showed up. “Runner from Kestrel just arrived, sir. Enemy squadron is approaching from the sea.”

  57

  The Grand Finale

  Isabela, Cuba

  Saturday morning

  30 April 1898

  I unfolded the note Gavin handed me, and wished I hadn’t.

  8:02 a.m., Saturday, 30 April 1898

  Commodore Wake,

  1—At 7:54 a.m., Maravillas observation post reported three small enemy ships approaching from ten miles to the west, close along the coast, in echelon-ahead formation. They appear to be torpedo or gun boats, possibly of the Ardilla-type. Speed of approach is approx eight knots. Unless otherwise directed, we will engage them with Harrier and Falcon at the pass between Cayo Maravillas and Cayo de la Cruz if they try to enter the bay. Kestrel will get under way and engage if the enemy gets past Harrier and Falcon into the bay.

  2—Lt. Bilton has sounded the area around the entrance to the river and is trying to get Osprey inshore on your left flank to provide indirect gunfire for you. If it works, he will be in position by 8:30 a.m. Please advise me on potential target area and I will relay to him by lamp.

  3—I will keep you advised on enemy ships, our dispositions to meet them, and Osprey’s actions.

  4—Kestrel is standing by to fire more rounds on the pre-aimed target area and awaiting your word to fire.

  Respectfully,

  Captain James Southby, USN

  So the naval engagement would be right around nine o’clock, two bells into the forenoon watch—probably right about the time of the next Spanish Army assault on Isabela.

  I showed the message to Woodgerd. He was a reporter, but first and foremost he was a soldier. In his twenty years as a mercenary, he’d been with the underdogs quite often. I hoped he had some valuable advice, because I sorely needed some.

  “Very interesting,” he pondered aloud. “I wonder if they coordinated it? Damned impressive, if they did. My advice? Cut your losses and get the hell out of here, right now.”

  Valid and logical. Still, I refused to lose confidence. “Not yet. As long as they’re only gunboats, our squadron can handle them, Michael. I’m not worried about the Spanish vessels. They’re a major factor, but I’m more worried about what will happen ashore.”

  “Oh yeah, I agree about the boats. Those are nothing. Your real problem is here on land, and the commitment you made to the Cubans. It’s time to decide priorities, Peter.”

  Woodgerd was a jaded soul, never committing anything to anybody without substantial money being involved. And even then, only on sure things. Woodgerd never gambled.

  “We have to hold on for another five hours, until the Cuban attack at one o’clock, Michael. Then the Spanish will be caught in a vice.”

  “Five hours is an eternity, Peter. Your men can’t hold out that long. Hell, we’ll be doing pretty damn well to repel the next attack. After that, your squids’ll be finished. They’re not used to this sort of work.”

  The enemy fortified his comment right then by attacking early.

  “Here come the Spaniardos, sir,” announced Rork from the gun line.

  Three hundred yards away, a solid wave of soldiers in light blue stood as one—a battalion, en masse. The entire line fired their rifles at us, then ran forward thirty yards and went to ground seconds before the rank behind them fired. Instantly, the front rank was up again and firing, then running forward. They went through precisely the same maneuver again and again, coming ever closer to our defenses. Their volleys were missing our sailors on the ground, but not by much.

  I’d never seen anything like it. The attack was perfectly orchestrated. It was mesmerizing—actually magnificent—in some terribly lethal way. A slower motion version of the cavalry charge.

  “Oh yeah, they’re good. Very good,” Woodgerd commented, then smiled evilly. “But they have a weakness. They’re doing it by the numbers, and therefore are predictable. Timing is everything, Peter.”

  I was thinking the same thing and noted the duration of their next evolution of advance. It took thirty-five seconds. I timed the next few. All were exactly thirty-five seconds.

  “Eyes front!” yelled Rork when several sailors glanced back at their commodore, fear etched into their faces, waiting for orders.

  The leading ranks of the 38th Leon Infantry Regiment were only two hundred yards away, well within our rifle range, but I called out, “Steady men. I’ll not give the order to fire until we see the whites of their eyes!”

  Admittedly, it was a ridiculous homage to American patriotism, which I said without forethought, then thought sounded rather bland. Fortunately, some sailors laughed, breaking the tension.

  Another Spanish volley zinged toward us, now much lower. They could see where we were. The next one would hit flesh. The first Spanish rank was running, about to go to ground. The second rank beginning to aim and fire, as soon as the front rank was out of the way.

  This was the ten-second gap when they were vulnerable.

  I shouted, “Left side of the line . . . by volley at the second enemy rank to your front . . . Fire!”

  The front Spanish rank had just gone prone. We hit the left side of the rank behind them a split-second before they fired at us. A good third of the Spanish line was hit and faltered. Our sudden volley interrupted their officers’ orders, which had been in a rhythmic monotone.

  I exploited the enemy’s momentary confusion. “Right side of the line . . . by volley at the enemy left side . . . Fire!”

  More Spanish soldiers of the second rank were hit. The first rank stood up and I quickly shouted, “Left side of the line . . . by volley at the enemy to your front . . .
Fire!”

  Theirs went off simultaneously with ours, but ours was fired from low positions, the trajectory ascending into the Spanish as they stood unprotected. More enemy fell, but not enough.

  Woodgerd observed quietly, “Here comes the charge.”

  This was when my annoying insistence on detailed preparations paid off, for the long period of our waiting had been used in readying our line, our men, and other weapons.

  Every sailor lay protected behind a foot-high mounded ridge of sand which stretched along our entire front. This was then topped another foot higher with various debris. Firing ports were placed between the debris for each man, with thick notched sticks dug into the ridge for his barrel to rest upon, thereby improving accuracy and endurance. Range stakes, each distance displaying a different color, were placed out in the killing zone. This enabled our sailors to set their rifle sights without delay or uncertainty. Drills on reloading, clearing blockages, and fixing bayonets had been performed over and over, both day and night.

  Spanish buglers sounded the charge. The first five ranks of seven hundred soldiers rose up and ran toward us. Their officers’ sabers angled over, directing their men to shift the attack to their left, which was our right flank. That is a difficult movement to accomplish while under fire, but the Leon Regiment was one of the best. With parade ground efficiency, the Spanish on our left turned the axis of their attack diagonally, heading for our right side. The entire battalion headed for the same place.

  They fired from the hip as they ran, but that sort of shooting had nowhere near the accuracy of their previous efforts from the point shoulder position. Still, the hundreds of buzzing Mauser rounds did add to the chaos, and the strain on our men. The Spanish Mauser’s ability to load a magazine of five rounds quickly and then be reloaded while running, was vastly superior to the slower loading procedure of the U.S. Navy’s Lee rifle.

  “Left side!” I called out in the next ten-second gap. “By volley into the enemy . . . Fire!”