Racing for the bridge, I found that we were under way and headed in for the Morro. The night was intensely dark but the Massachusetts had been stationed at the mouth of the gap with orders to keep her searchlight trained on the entrance in case any more Spanish ships tried to escape. By the glare of the searchlight, I could see that something was happening inside the harbor mouth. We learned later that the Spaniards were trying to sink one of their ships, the old Reina Mercedes, to block the passage so we could not enter the harbor if we decided to make the attempt.
I heard nothing except some confused, far away noises. Then, out of the night, without the slightest warning, came a shrill scream followed by a tremendous explosion and we on the bridge were drenched by a great wave of saltwater rising, apparently miraculously, from the calm sea through which we were moving. At the same time the ship quivered convulsively as though she had struck something. Then, before we had a chance to wipe the water out of our eyes, came a second and more appalling scream accompanied by a swift rush of air hot as that from an open furnace door and followed by a terrific detonation and a dazzling glare of light from our darkened quarterdeck.
We had been struck by two 8-inch mortar shells. They had been fired at the Massachusetts’ searchlight and had hit us. The first shell had dished our starboard bow plate and the second, coming down vertically on the quarterdeck, had passed through the deck, through the deck below and had exploded on striking the armored deck.
When we went aft to view the damage it seemed incredible that a single shell could have created such havoc. That part of the ship was a wreck. The projectile struck in the officers’ quarters and had we not been at our battle stations every officer on the ship would have been killed. There was a foot of water on the deck in which our belongings were floating in an indescribable state of confusion. Bulkheads had been knocked down and where there had been a line of staterooms was now a great open space with no partitions, littered with fragments of what had once been furniture.
The shell in exploding had set fire to the ship and at the same time had fractured the water main. The water, squirting out under high pressure, had extinguished the fire; the first time in history that a fire had been put out by an automatic sprinkling system!
Our punch bowl suffered a deep dent and when it was repaired a fragment of the exploded shell was mounted on the cover. As for the junior midshipman on board, he was reduced to one pair of trousers. When, six weeks later, he arrived in New York harbor those trousers had absolutely no seat in them. If ladies visited the ship he was obliged either to remain seated, like royalty, or else lean nonchalantly against the nearest wall.
[I have since read that it was ridiculous for us not to have made an attempt to run the passage into Santiago Bay because the only ordnance the forts possessed was some ancient cannon dating from 1668. Very interesting. I can only say that those seventeenth-century cannon balls behaved remarkably like mortar shells. I am sincerely sorry that these experts could not have been our guests in the officers’ quarters when those cannon balls struck. Of course, there were some of these old cannon in Morro where they were kept as relics. One of them is now at Annapolis. It is made of bronze and bears the motto ULTIMA RATIO REGNUM — The Last Argument of Kings. Unfortunately for us, they also had modern ordnance and knew very well how to use them.]
For the next few days, General Shatter kept sending letters to General Toral, chief of the Spanish Army occupying Santiago, ordering him to surrender the city, which General Toral politely refused to do. He knew our army was being decimated by various tropical illnesses, especially yellow fever, and could not maintain the seige for long. Finally a plan was worked out which was to end the war.
On the morning of July 10th, the Indiana and the Brooklyn got underway and proceeded to a point off Aguadores where they dropped anchor. We couldn’t see anything except a series of hills enclosing our anchorage. Ashore there was a small detachment of the Army signal corps. First we went to General Quarters which had become as familiar to us as brushing our teeth. Then our heavy 13-inch turret guns were swung to starboard, that is, to seaward as far as they would go. Nowadays heavy guns turrets are balanced so that when they are swung abeam the ship remains on an even keel. On the Indiana, however, this was not so and the results of swinging the turrets was to give the ship a heavy list to seaward so that the 8-inch turrets nearest the shore were tilted upward until their guns pointed in air so they could fire over the hills.
The stage being set and various mysterious calculations having been made by our bearded navigator, a range and deflection was sent to the 8-inch guns. I remember the range; it was nine-thousand yards, or four and a half sea miles. We saw the afterturret swing to the left, then slightly back again to the right, a pause, and then the ear shattering crash of the discharge. No wonder so many of the older Navy men are hard of hearing.
As the shell passed out of sight over the summit of the hills it awoke a series of wails and howls that no banshee in Ireland could have equalled, the echoes taking them up until gradually they died away in the distance. Then ensued a long wait followed by marked activity among the little group of signalmen ashore. One of them began waving a flag at us. We used the Meyer system then, not the Morse and it was before the days of the two-armed semaphore. The words of the message were spelled out by waving one flag to the right and to the left. Naturally, the Meyer code being long obsolete and of no value whatever, I remember every word of it.
We read the signal the soldier sent us. “Low and to the right.” The range and deflection were corrected and a second shot fired. In a very short time no future corrections were necessary and all through that long Sunday afternoon, at intervals of two minutes, we sent a shot at our invisible target nearly five miles away over the hills.
We were bombarding the city of Santiago de Cuba.
The next day, July 11th, the bombardment was renewed. We kept up the fire for two hours and then an agitated fluttering of flags from our friends ashore bade us, “Cease firing.” The Spaniards had had enough. Honor had been satisfied and they were surrendering.
Some of our people who visited the city, reported that our fire had been systematically knocking down the houses, block by block. The actual surrender took place on July 17th but, after that second day’s bombardment, the results were certain.
We arrived at New York on August 19th, my twentieth birthday. Before sighting Sandy Hook we were met by an escort of ferryboats, excursion steamers, tugs — everything that could float. More and more arrived until we seemed to be surrounded by the entire population of Greater New York. Everyone was cheering madly.
Victory reception of fleet in New York.
The Battery was packed by an enormous crowd and, as we headed up the North River, we passed more multitudes covering both shores. As the land grew higher the number of people didn’t diminish; they covered the heights and the slopes down to the water’s edge. Our ships still wore their war paint and the Brooklyn was flying the flag she had used in the battle; it had been torn in many places by the enemy shells and certainly didn’t detract from her appearance. We went as far as Grant’s Tomb where we fired a National Salute and then turned and headed down river to our anchorages.
Perhaps people were simpler and more enthusiastic in those days; perhaps the Spanish War didn’t last long enough for them to get bored and cynical; perhaps the fact that we had no allies made it more personal; perhaps the fact that every man, whether he did well or badly, was a volunteer had its effect but, whatever it was, I never saw anything like this reception again.
When liberty was granted we could not walk more than a block without running into crowds surrounding a sailor whose cap ribbon bore a name now made famous, such as “Oregon” or perhaps “Brooklyn”. They were being plied with questions and regarded as heroes.
Newspaper account of battle.
It is now fashionable to jeer at the Spani
sh-American War. Even so, it had something. The tropical setting, the background of palms, white surf and blue sky, the chivalry of the enemy, the shortness of the range (in the battle of July 3rd we could see the faces of the people we were fighting), the absence of submarines and the type of warfare they represent, the fact that it was largely a war of movement and things took place out in the open with flags snapping in the breeze, the sea salt in our faces, and our ships speeding through water as blue as turquoise and white with foam, the staccato sequence of events, the fact that when it was all over we knew who had won.
Battle of Santiago.
Perhaps most important of all, we were a new country just entering the world arena to test our ability against the old, established nations. Now we too had an empire. Now the sun never set on the American flag, for we had acquired the Philippines. Now, as Mr. Kipling assured us, we were to take up the white man’s burden and rule over lesser breeds. For the first time in our hundred years of history, we were received as equals by Europe. As President McKinley said, rather in astonishment, “In a few short months we have become a world power; and I know, sitting here in this chair, with what added respect the nations of the world now deal with the United States and it is vastly different from the conditions I found when I was inaugurated.”
Very soon we were to discover what our new-found responsibilities were to cost us in blood and money — many times over what the war had cost. But in those golden weeks no doubts troubled us. The United States was on its way and nothing could stop us.
Chapter 4
Life of a Junior Officer 1900-1903
So we’ll drink tonight
To the Midshipmite,
Singing cheerily lads, Yo ho!
— Old song
Looking over the previous chapters, I have made it appear that a midshipman’s life was all hazing, bad water, and hard labor. True enough, it was no life for a mollycoddle, yet thinking back it seems to me that some of my happiest days were spent as a junior officer — first a middy and then an ensign. If we spent long days at sea, we had liberties on shore. Although our pay was only three thousand a year, we lived like kings when on leave. A stein of beer was a nickel and that included the “free lunch” which often amounted to a veritable smorgasbord of twenty dishes or better. The best seats in the theater were $1.40 (balcony 50 cents) and a first-class supper at Rector’s or Delmonico’s, wines included, never came to more than $30 for you and your young lady. We paid neither board nor rent for we lived on the ship, so we had no “overhead”. Perhaps best of all, we were constantly being shipped from one port to another, which was most convenient if you found yourself becoming overly involved with some lovely fair or her too-demanding parents. No millionaire, unless indeed he was able to afford his own yacht, could have led such a life.
Shortly after the war, I received my first decoration: a bronze medal in acknowledgment of my service. Later, I was also awarded five clasps to be attached to the medal’s ribbon commemorating various engagements I had taken part in under fire, such as attacks on Morro and mining operations. The engagements deemed worthy of these decorations were those of June 22nd, July 2nd, July 3rd, July 4th, July 10th, and July 11th.
Perhaps best of all was an award of $272.62, prize money for the destruction of Cervera’s fleet, the sum being based on the computed value of the ships sunk and my rank. Apart from the fact that as a midshipman I could use the money, I was proud to have this bond with John Paul Jones and the frigate captains of the Napoleonic wars, many of whom after a successful cruise, became independently wealthy, bought a country estate, and lived “disguised as a gentleman” as the cynical saying went. Indeed, many old-time captains were so lacking in interest in their profession that they preferred the command of a frigate to that of a ship of the line (the modern equivalents would be a cruiser and a battleship), for when it came to prizes the slower, heavier line vessel didn’t have a chance.
Although the English look down on us for always chasing the “almighty dollar” (I don’t think an Englishman can pronounce the word “dollar” without prefacing it with “almighty”), they take a far more practical view of such matters in a military sense than we do. At the end of the First World War, the British admiral David Beatty was not only created a baron and an earl but was given a cash grant of FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS! The same was done for the army commander, Sir Douglas Haig. A number of other Army and Navy leaders — Jellicoe, French, Allenby and several others — were created viscounts and given a quarter of a million. Contrast that with our General Grant who, while dying from a painful disease, wrote his memoirs lest his creditors remained unpaid.
When the politicians abolished prize money, one remarked virtuously, “It was a relic of piracy.” I remember a cynical midshipman at our mess commented, “The politicians used to get half; now they get all.”
I should add that there were many cases of outrageous scandals in connection with prize money on the part of the civilians involved. One of my classmates, in command of a prize crew, found the cargo of his captured vessel being openly looted by the local authorities in a certain southern port. He reported it. In return, he received a volley of abuse from the local press. For months afterwards attempts were made to hurt him with the Navy Department. They were ultimately successful for he was forced to resign.
I had a good record at the Academy, and it was generally considered certain that I would be made cadet lieutenant-commander, the highest possible rank for an undergraduate. I remember at a party a few weeks before graduation, we were each given a prophecy and mine read, “I see four stripes” (today, the cadet commander is a five-striper). When the appointments were posted, I was a three-striper, in command of the color company — the second highest honor. I couldn’t believe my eyes. After walking around in a daze for some time, I returned to the bulletin board certain I had made a mistake. No, it was still there. It was a small matter, so I am sorry to say it was probably the bitterest disappointment of my life. I was still able to select the young lady who would present the corps with the colors and to receive a kiss from her. Ah well, it is all over now.
After graduation in June 1900, I was ordered, together with several of my classmates, to temporary duty on the USS Michigan conducting a hydrographic survey on the Great Lakes. It was thought that all naval officers should have the opportunity to study every branch of the service. I regarded this as rather tame duty, but actually it turned out considerably more interesting than I had anticipated.
Ironic comments about Rear Admiral Mannix in the Naval Academy’s “Lucky Bat”, the graduation book of the class of 1900. As it is difficult to read, the copy relating to Mannix is as follows:
Mannix, Daniel Pratt, “Armstrong Hobson.” Three-striper, Washington D.C. “Greater men than I may have lived, but I do not believe it.” Admirer of everything Washingtonian, including himself; double-reflecting, triple-flattering mirror used; Plebe brace; co-efficient of expansion undetermined, but it is considered enormous; Star (3).
The Michigan was an institution; she was a side wheeler, built long before the Civil War. The original engines, of the inclined type, were still in her and, amazingly enough, in excellent condition. Her crew were as special as the ship; they were permanent and were never ordered to another ship or station. They were very well off; the bugler was rumored to be a millionaire. All of them were older men and had their own traditions and ways of doing things which were often puzzling and sometimes infuriating to a regular naval officer.
Yes, I committed the standard blunder that all saltwater officers invariably committed when assigned to duty on the lakes. It was lucky I did so. It would have broken my crew’s hearts had I omitted it. At the first Abandon Ship drill, I noticed that all the crew had expectant smiles on their faces for some reason I could not fathom. Annoyed, I made a point of carefully checking the ship’s boats to make sure that they were equipped with provision
s, medical supplies, life preservers, signal flags, etc. I still felt that something was missing. Suddenly I realized what it was. Pointing an accusing finger at the coxswain, I thundered, “Where are your water beakers?” While the crew burst into a roar of delighted laughter, the coxswain picked up a dipper and pointed to Lake Michigan. This was a joke that never failed.
A short time later, I got my revenge although it was unintentional. I had the deck and I ordered our millionaire-bugler, “Bugler, hook on the first cutter” — meaning, of course, for him to sound the call. I then turned to other duties. Suddenly it occurred to me that he had not sounded the call and had disappeared. Looking over the rail I discovered our millionaire down in the boat hooking it on himself and loudly protesting that it wasn’t his job. Of course, this seemed as hilarious to us “regulars” as the water beakers business did to the ship’s crew.
For the first time I realized the enormous size of the great inland seas on our northern border. In case you don’t know it, it is very easy to get seasick on the Great Lakes, humiliating though that is to a deep-sea sailor. When there is a “sea” it is usually an unpleasant, choppy one. Another problem was the traffic. Sometimes I would go on deck prepared to stand the Mid Watch (midnight to 4 A.M.) and find there were twenty or thirty lights in sight, all forward of the beam and most of them having the “right of way” over us. At such times, I longed for the open sea.
Ensign Mannix at the Great Lakes.
It was at this time that Theodore Roosevelt, then vice-president, in a speech at the Minnesota State Fair, uttered the famous words, “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” He added, “Build and keep at a pitch of the highest training a thoroughly efficient Navy.” Roosevelt instantly became the hero of every Navy man. Later he was to fall out of popular favor as a jingoist but he never fell out of favor with the Navy.
The Old Navy Page 9
