Several went down, but fewer than before.
“Sailors! Fix . . . bayonets!”
Sixty right hands reached behind and grabbed bayonets, bringing them forward and locking them onto the barrel lug. Rork told the deserters to do the same.
I waved for the cart-mounted Colt machine gun to come forward from its hiding place in an alleyway. The gunners pushed it forward along the road at a run, stopping at a strangler fig tree at the edge of town where I stood, forty feet behind the line of sailors. The tree offered partial concealment but the gun still had a broad field of fire. Rork’s former deserters manning the center of the line vacated their positions and crawled on their bellies quickly to the right flank, getting them out of the Colt’s line of fire.
A shout to Gavin on the left got his men firing independently at the Spanish to keep the pressure up on that side. Over on the far right side, Bosun Mack was in charge, crouched down behind an overturned handcart. He calmly kept his men under control, a monumental demonstration of discipline as the Spanish closed to within fifty yards, their rounds now hitting among the sailors.
Mack swiveled to look at me, his right hand holding a lanyard which led out beyond his defense line to the railcar. Spanish bullets thudded into the cart within inches of him. Several sailors cursed they’d been hit. Mack’s arm slowly tensioned the lanyard, his eyes locked on me as the Spanish soldiers entered the blast zone.
I waited. A Mauser round zinged near me, then another. I heard the gunners behind me cock the bolt of the Colt machine gun.
A squad of Spaniards sought cover at the railcar, then ran toward Mack’s side of the line. An enemy subaltern, seemingly a teenager, urged the men behind him not to falter, but to charge on and overrun the yanquis. They were only yards away from the sailors now. The main body of infantry was nearing the railcar, a major in the middle, other officers scattered among the soldiers.
Another fifteen feet to go.
“Steady, lads . . .” Rork ordered.
The enemy was massing all around the railcar. Their major trotted over to them, pointing toward our line. Five feet more and he would be right in front of the bomb. I felt my chest tightening as I faced Mack.
“NOW!”
58
The Crescendo
Isabela, Cuba
Saturday morning
30 April 1898
The detonation was a blinding flash of light in front of the sailors. The shock and heat wave picked up everything in its path and flung it into the line of sailors.
Everything near the railcar instantaneously disappeared in a ball of orange fire. Some seconds later, I found myself twenty feet on the other side of the tree, dazed. I felt hands pulling me up. It was one of the Colt machine gunners.
“Forget me—start firing, man!” I yelled into his face. He staggered over to the machine gun, which his mates were setting back upright.
When building and placing the bomb, Yeats and his petty officers had estimated the amount of high explosive packed into the boiler would make the blast the equivalent of a battleship’s 10-inch gun’s anti-personnel round. They said it would be contained to the top and ends by the flatbed railcar and its trucks, and confined to the rear by some iron plates found in the town—projecting the blast and assorted shrapnel laterally across the road in front of our defenses. When I asked if they had ever seen a 10-inch gun round explode, or the effects of it afterward, none had. Neither had I. Few in the navy had. Our planning for the effects of the blast was merely guesswork. It was based on intuitive logic, but remained only a guess. It turned out we’d guessed wrong.
The Colt began firing short bursts through the haze of choking dust and smoke. From my left, Gavin shouted to cease firing and save ammunition. The Colt stopped. No one was moving in front of us. There were no targets.
I headed for the right side of the line to find Rork and the others nearest the blast. Rork was sitting on the ground, stretching his neck, a pained look on his face. His former deserters were arrayed in various stunned poses around him. Most held their ears, some bled out their noses. I knelt beside Rork and leaned close. I couldn’t see any obvious wounds.
“Are you hit, Sean?”
He gave me that insane grin of his. “Me noggin’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce, an’ me neck’s strained, but that’s it, sir. You?”
“No, I’m all right. Your men, what of them?”
The grin morphed into pride. “Banged an’ bruised, but still here. The lads never ran, sir, never flinched. Nary a one o’ `em.”
So they could all hear, I said, “Well done, men. Well done. ¡Bien hecho!”
The air cleared a bit, and I searched for the railcar, but it was gone. So was the railroad track, and even the track bed beneath it. The whole area was a wide crater, with mangled ends of track twisted up in odd shapes on either side.
There were no Spanish soldiers near the crater. Not even any bodies. Then I saw an arm. Other fire-blackened body parts were scattered everywhere in the sand.
I got to Mack and his men. The little mounded ridge, topped with various debris, had been swept away by the shock wave. The bosun had reformed the defense line about fifty feet to the rear. Behind them, by a blown-down shack, a dozen men lay holding their heads.
“Bosun, are you wounded?” I asked Mack, who was as dazed as everyone else. It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, he squinted at me.
“I think so, sir. Little hard to see. Some of our men are wounded. Concussions I think. But everybody looks alive. Haven’t gotten to all of them yet. Most of the blast went over us.”
“Where is the enemy?”
“Don’t know, sir. The bomb was bigger than we thought it’d be. I guess it took them all.”
Gavin ran over to us and knelt down, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Commodore, are you wounded, sir? Your ears are bleeding.”
“It’s just a concussion, like everybody else. How’s the left side of our line?”
He kept hold of me. “No casualties among the sailors on the left, sir. We were far enough away from the blast. Are you sure you’re not wounded, sir? You don’t look good.”
His concern was starting to aggravate me. “Mr. Gavin, I am not wounded and you can let go now. Thank you for your concern. The Spanish—where are they?”
He let go, but still eyed me closely. “Gone, sir. On this side of our line, the blast got them. On the left side, they ran back to the cane field. Your defense plan worked, sir. It stopped the attack.”
Not entirely, I thought. The Spanish will be back.
A young sailor in an impossibly clean uniform walked hesitantly toward us from the road. I recognized him, a sixteen-year-old serving in his first ship. Kestrel’s youngest man. He stared horrified at the scene around us, and then at me.
In trembled voice, he asked, “Are you really Commodore Wake, sir?”
I waved away Gavin’s impending reprimand for violating naval protocol. The boy had delivered messages to me many times on the ship, but his confusion was understandable. Besides the carnage around us, I didn’t look like the commodore anymore, for my uniform, like everyone else’s, was ragged, filthy, and bloody.
“Yes, son. I’m Commodore Wake. Are you delivering a message from the ship?”
He came to wide-eyed attention and handed me a folded note. “Ah, yes, sir. Message from Captain Southby, sir.”
8:41 a.m., 30 April 1898
Commodore Wake,
1—Enemy gunboats now two miles west from Maravillas, steering for outer channel.
2—Light cruiser in sight ten miles to southeast, approx. one mile offshore, steering northwest at apprx eight knots—unknown nationality, but does not look American.
3—Osprey in position in 3 fathoms, one mile to northeast of the left end of your line—at 80 degrees West, 22 degrees, 56 minutes North. Lt. Bilton requests target locat
ions.
4—Heard blast—request status on USN and enemy ashore.
Captain James Southby, USN
Lieutenant Bilton was taking chances—Osprey had maybe four feet of water under her keel, and the tide was ebbing. In a few hours, Osprey would be aground. Conjuring up in my mind the geography of the chart, I scrawled a quick reply on the back of the note.
8:52 a.m., 30 April 1898
Capt Southby,
1—Continue defense plan against gunboats if they try to enter past Maravillas.
2—If cruiser is Spanish and attacks thru channel—take squadron and try to escape among islands inside the bay. There will be no time for embarking us. Do not wait for shore party.
3—Target for Osprey is area of cane field, road, and track—and for half-mile to the rear (SW) from that area. Fire five rounds immediately. We will correct from those.
4—SitRep ashore: enemy repulsed and now in cane field and beyond. Main mass (most of regiment) probably at curve of road. Expecting another attack. USN casualties minimal and line still holding—moving it to edge of town now. Send food & water.
Commodore P. Wake, USN
The messenger ran off to the ship far faster than I saw him arrive. Rork and Woodgerd walked over and sat down. I motioned for Gavin to sit as well. Mack started to leave, but I had him stay.
When I had the attention of the circle, I turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Gavin, I need several things as soon as possible: a casualty and ammunition report; a reconnaissance report on exactly where the enemy is, and their dispositions; the moving of our defense line back to the shacks at the edge of town; and some water and food from the ship distributed to the men. It should arrive soon. Questions or suggestions from anyone?”
The four replied “No, sir” in unison. I studied them for hesitation, but there was none.
“Very well, then. Osprey has worked inshore to a position where her guns can reach the enemy. I estimate she’ll have another one to two hours before the ebb forces her out of range. They will be opening fire soon with five rounds. We will send corrections, relayed by Kestrel.
“The enemy gunboats which appeared earlier are nearing Maravillas. The squadron can handle them, but now a light cruiser has just appeared ten miles east along the coast. Nationality is unknown at present, but probably Spanish. If the cruiser enters the channel and attacks our ships, I have directed the squadron to try to escape through the small islands in the bay, if they can. That means we here will be on our own, because there won’t be time to extract us before they have to flee.”
My men solemnly acknowledged the bad news. Woodgerd said nothing.
“If forced by circumstances to be on our own, we will have a rear guard of volunteers under Rork’s command continue firing at the enemy, while the main body wades across the shoals at the mouth of the river. Once across, they’ll head upriver along the far bank. The rear guard will then run for it to the river and cross before the enemy realizes we’ve vacated the place.
“The Spanish won’t expect this strategy. They will expect us to remain fighting while waiting for rescue. But we’ll be gone from Isabela. Once we get up the river, we’ll make contact with the Cuban Army, and arrange with them for our withdrawal from Cuba somewhere else.”
I paused, again gauging their attitude. They looked dubious. I injected some levity. “Once we get to Key West, drinks are on me for all hands.”
The last comment got an obligatory laugh from everyone. I couldn’t blame their lack of humor. My escape strategy sounded improbable to me too.
59
The Idea
Isabela, Cuba
Saturday morning
30 April 1898
Twenty-six minutes later, at nine-eighteen a.m., Osprey’s rounds hit the area of the cane field and road. We could see the Spanish soldiers withdrawing from the open area and heading to their rear, about two hundred men in all. Shortly thereafter, the same young messenger arrived to take range and azimuth corrections back to Kestrel for signaling to Osprey.
There was no reason to bombard the area where only Spanish wounded were. A wounded man requires at least two healthy men to transport and care for him, so I wanted those wounded to survive and be a burden to their regiment. I also wanted Osprey’s precious rounds to impact the enemy concentration at the curve of the road. My message was to increase elevation and range another three hundred yards, and bring the azimuth arc out to twenty degrees. This would spread the impact area across the width of the open area where the enemy was massed. After five more rounds were fired, further corrections would be sent.
Southby’s update on the enemy warships arrived with the messenger.
9:15 a.m., 30 April 1898
Commodore Wake,
1—Spanish gunboats loitering three miles offshore Maravillas
2—Cruiser is still unknown and heading this way
3—Understand order regarding actions if cruiser attacks—will remain at wharf until then
4—Food and water sent to you with this messenger
Captain James Southby, USN
I looked up and saw a line of sailors, each staring around them at the destruction, carrying small casks and boxes. Mack met them and began calling out men from the line to get their portions. It was the first sign of liveliness I’d seen in them since the blast.
Then Gavin walked up. “I have the casualty, ammunition, and reconnaissance reports, sir.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Gavin.”
“Aye, sir. Casualty count from the last attack is twenty-seven men with apparent concussions, five of them serious enough to be sent to Norden, sir. Of the remaining twenty-two, sixteen are in the shade until they get their wits back. The other six have returned to the defense line among the outer shacks of the town. None of our men were killed, sir.”
“Remaining effectives?” I asked.
“Thirty-three completely unwounded men, accompanied by twenty-two recent ambulatory wounded, including the ten previously wounded, making a total of fifty-five officers and men able to shoot, which includes the deserters.”
“Former deserters, Mr. Gavin. I think they’ve earned a change in description. They’ll be referred to as volunteers from now on. Ammunition?”
“Yes, sir—volunteers. We’ve redistributed the ammunition and each man now has thirty-one rounds, sir. The Colt gun still has four hundred eighty.”
“Reconnaissance report?”
“Chief Rork just returned from leading the scouting party, which included several of the deser. . . I mean volunteers . . . sir. He used them to interrogate the enemy wounded they found out in front of our line. The chief estimates approximately one hundred and fifty-one enemy dead. Seventy-three are wounded. All of them need immediate medical attention, but there’s nothing we can do. By the way, sir, they include the lieutenant colonel of the Leon Regiment. He led the attack and was hit by the railcar blast. Has an iron shard sticking out of his thigh.”
The wounded, with one them high ranking, was the opportunity I’d been hoping for.
“Really? Pass the word for Chief Rork, and continue the report.”
Gavin called for Rork, then went on. “The main Spanish line seems to be beyond the cane field, concentrated back at the curve of the road, sir, right where you thought they were. Chief Rork made it up to the cane field, found no unwounded enemy in the field or fougasse ditch. He estimates approximately six to eight hundred enemy have formed up back at the curve. He thinks the Spanish are probably scattered back into the mangroves on either side also.”
The report agreed with my rough estimates during the attack. So far, the 38th Leon Regiment had suffered a devastating number of casualties. They would concentrate on regrouping before coming at us again. With a rail line leading right to them, reinforcements were only hours away.
Rork trudged up and I bid Gavin to stay.
“You look like hell, Rork,” I said, meaning it. “Sit down and take a load off your bones.”
He lowered himself to the ground with a groan. “Thank ye, sir. Me ol’ bones’re needin’ it.”
“Me too, Sean. Listen, what’s this Spanish lieutenant colonel like?”
He paused in concentration, then responded, “The ol’ sod’s me own age an’ in pain, sir. Ooh, an’ he’s a ol’ school grandee o’ Spain, through an’ through. Got a name a mile long, but the main part o’ it is Rodrigo Azul Ortega. Maybe royal, by the looks o’ `im.”
An old school grandee officer suited me. Royal blood would be even better.
“What’s his attitude on what happened?”
“The gent’s stunned at our defense, sir. Said the Spaniardo commanders all thought we were just a small raidin’ party o’ yanqui sailors. Figured it to be a cake walk for regulars such as `em, even after what we did to Arce’s crew yesterday. Now he thinks he fought the whole o’ Uncle Sam’s bloody Marine Corps an’ this is a major friggin’ invasion. Methought it best to leave the ol’ boy with that impression, sir.”
“Good thinking, Rork. That’s exactly what we want them to believe.”
I shifted to the lieutenant. “Mr. Gavin, I need a sheet of ship’s stationery immediately.”
After it arrived, I spent five minutes carefully scripting a message. I called Gavin, Rork, Mack, and Woodgerd to return.
“Mr. Gavin, right after Osprey’s next barrage hits, you will carry a flag of truce to the enemy lines. With you will be one of the volunteers, who will interpret for you. Present the enemy commander with this letter.”
I passed it around for each to read.
9:45 a.m., 30 April 1898
Isabela, Republic of Cuba
To the Honorable Commanding Officer
38th Leon Regiment of Spain
Dear Colonel,
It is my military duty to inform you that approximately 73 of your soldiers lie wounded and in need of your immediate medical attention on the battleground. They include Lieutenant Colonel Rodrigo Azul Ortega. Regrettably, we have no prisoners from your regiment—for all the other Spanish soldiers on the battlefield are dead, a total of approximately 141 men and officers. Therefore, in the interest of common humanity, I propose the following:
An Honorable War Page 28
