Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  At last we began to ascend the ridge. The vegetation thinned out a little, and I saw an intersection with a wider trail a few yards ahead. My mental map told me turning left onto it would take us three miles southeast to the American lines at Siboney. Turning right would take us to the enemy lines no more than a quarter mile up the trail.

  Just as we were about to turn left, a raucous squawking sounded in the trees above us. Rota-tata-tata-too! Noveno stopped in midstride, his left foot in the air and right hand pointing up. The rest of us instantly halted where we were. The squawking stopped. Noveno mouthed the word “arriero.”

  Fortuna gestured toward a long-tailed brown bird in a tree to our right, softly explaining to me, “The Mambis’ lookout bird. He alerts them when someone is moving quickly in their area.”

  Suddenly, the usually incessant jungle sounds—birds squawking, frogs croaking, insects whining, land crabs skittering, and other creatures moving in the undergrowth—ominously ceased.

  I heard sounds of movement ahead. Noveno’s head slowly pivoted around, his eyes focusing forward. Lowering his body to the ground, he cocked his head to hear better, then sniffed the air. All of us knelt down on the animal path watching Noveno, who had his head turned to the right.

  The sound came again, closer now. It was on our right side this time, identifiable as the clank of metal and a gurgle of liquid. Even I could identify the source—a soldier’s rifle stock hitting a half-full canteen as he walked along. It was followed by an angry admonition in oddly accented Spanish. The sergeant was angry.

  “Puertorriqueño,” Fortuna whispered in my right ear. “El enemigo.”

  Noveno raised four fingers on his left hand, then moved it from left to right. A stone’s throw away, an enemy patrol of four Puerto Rican soldiers—part of General Rubín’s force—came into sight, visible from the waist up. I deduced they were returning to Las Guasimas after a patrol toward the American lines at Siboney.

  Suddenly, farther to the left, I was surprised to hear the drawl of a West Texas cowboy only fifty feet away. “Jimmy, see that one there? Ah’m puttin’ a round up that bastard’s ass afore he gits away.” The Texan’s Krag-Jorgensen rifle cracked twice.

  My companions looked at me questioningly. There weren’t supposed to be any American troops in the immediate area yet. Is it the reconnaissance patrol? They’re supposed to be back on the main road behind us, to the east. I heard more American voices from the left.

  A concerted volley of Spanish Mauser rounds exploded to our right. In the dense jungle it was impossible to pinpoint shooters, especially with the smokeless powder the Spanish army used. Several Krags replied from the left with their own barrage of bullets.

  Just then, Hotchkiss light field artillery opened fire from behind and to our left, back near the main road. None of this was making sense. Why are our guns this far out in front of our lines? You don’t bring artillery along on a reconnaissance. The rounds exploded somewhere to the north in muffled thuds, the concussion absorbed by the jungle. They were quickly answered by Spanish Krupp 75-millimeter field artillery from the northwest, behind the Spanish-held hill.

  One of the Krupp rounds burst in the air close behind us, and I could hear shrapnel cutting through the trees as a cloud of green leaves showered down on us. One piece slashed a tree trunk near me.

  A furious artillery duel erupted, the steady booms and thuds accompanied by Spanish rifle volleys. The artillery was joined by a free-for-all of independent rifle fire from both directions—a hail of Krag, Mauser, Hotchkiss, and Krupp projectiles. Shrapnel zinged through the air like angry bees. Everyone, except us, was firing.

  Noveno turned around and looked at Fortuna questioningly. Fortuna shrugged and in turn looked at me. “Is General Shafter attacking here, sir? I thought he was advancing along the coast.”

  “I don’t know who this is, Major. But we need to get out of here.”

  “Back to the northeast and the Cuban battalion, sir, or back to the south and Siboney?”

  Another volley came from the Puerto Ricans on our right, and a round thudded into the tree between Rork and me. The big Irishman swore in Gaelic. The nearest Americans were somewhere on the main trail ahead of us, so I decided that direction was the best option.

  “We’ll go up to that main trail ahead, turn left, and get the hell back to the American lines!” I shouted above the rising din. “I’ll lead so the Americans see my uniform. Follow me and stay low!”

  They didn’t need any further encouragement. We ran as fast as it’s possible to run down a twisting goat path in a tropical jungle full of thorny bushes and Mambi ambushes. Turning left at the main trail, we ran even faster, all while crouching below the rain of white-hot Spanish shrapnel bursting above us. We’d gotten a few yards down the narrow trail—only the width of two men—when we saw the first dark-shirted troopers coming our way.

  “Don’t shoot! We’re Americans! Americans!” I shouted, echoed by Rork and Law. We slowed to a walk—hard to do as Spanish bullets continued to zing toward us from behind—so the troopers could see us clearly. I called out to them, “We’ve got Cuban troops with us. The Spanish are farther behind. What regiment are you?”

  “First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry!” someone shouted back. The troopers knelt down on one knee, leveling their rifles toward us. We kept walking toward them.

  I saw a big sergeant among the troopers and recognized him as Hamilton Fish. In contrast with the majority of the regiment, Fish was a wealthy New Yorker, grandson of President Grant’s secretary of state, and one of Theodore’s college athlete friends. Fish had been allowed into the regiment because of his physique and intelligence. Standing beside him was Capt. Allyn Capron, a highly respected regular officer of ten years’ service. I’d met both men at Theodore’s camp near Daiquiri.

  “Captain Wake? Is that you, sir?” called Capron.

  “Yes, Allyn, it is,” I replied as calmly as my pounding heart would allow. I passed the line of troopers and shook Capron’s hand. After our sprint I was a little short of breath, but managed to ask, “What’s your regiment doing this far inland?”

  “Looking for the Spanish, sir. The whole brigade’s on the move. The other one is behind us somewhere.”

  Well, so much for the grand plan. “Where’s Colonel Wood?”

  “Right here, Peter,” Wood answered as he rounded the bend of the trail with about twenty more troopers. His men fanned out on both sides of the trail, eyes anxiously searching for targets. Behind them was a long column of more men in dark blue, rifles at the ready.

  Wood wasted no time on pleasantries, for those days were past. “What do you know of the enemy?”

  “They’re fifty yards up this trail. You’re facing a picket line of about two platoons of Puerto Rican infantry spread across the trail and into the jungle to the east. About a quarter mile farther behind them are the main Spanish defenses—nine hundred men of several regiments entrenched in a semicircle around a steep hill. They are also dug in on another steep hill to the north. The main road heads northwest between the two hills. I think we’re near the left flank of their defenses on the nearest hill, but I’m not sure.”

  “The artillery?”

  “There are at least two Krupp 75s just behind that main line. They’re firing at our Hotchkiss guns over on the main road, where I take it we have other regiments.”

  “Yes, there are two regular cavalry regiments over there on the main road. We’re covering the left side of the brigade. Where are the Cuban troops?”

  A volley of rifle fire from the Puerto Rican troops behind us flew over our heads. Ducking down, I answered Wood. “There’s around eight hundred Cubans under Colonel González Clavel far over on the right, about a mile and a half to two miles to the northeast. They’re near the right end of the Spanish defense line, which is a steep cliff on the far hill. The Spanish were beginning to withdraw their main force from the trench line, but there’s still a strong rear guard in position. The Cubans aren’t strong
enough for a frontal assault on the Spanish defenses, so Colonel Clavel told me he planned to wait until the Spanish vacated the entrenchments and then attack them when they were exposed on the road to Santiago.”

  Wood addressed Capron. “Allyn, now that you’ve heard Captain Wake’s intelligence, continue your movement up this trail. I need detailed information about the enemy’s disposition and the terrain, both ahead and along the hill to the left. Our regiment will advance up this trail, with elements flanking either side.”

  Capron, Fish, and the others hurried up the trail. More men arrived from the south and took up temporary defensive positions, ready to move on command. I looked down the trail to the south. It was jammed with American soldiers heading our way.

  After Wood finished giving orders to a staff officer, I said, “Leonard, nobody up here was expecting the Americans for another couple of days, and then only to secure this area as a flank while the main force moved west along the coast. Obviously, the situation has changed. What’s going on? General Shafter’s moving faster than I thought, plus this advance is much farther inland than we thought it would be. Navy guns can’t reach this far. Is his headquarters around here someplace?”

  “No, he’s still back on the ship. The follow-on regiments and supplies are unloading back at Siboney. Some are heading this way, not on the coast rail line. General Wheeler’s the senior general ashore. He decided to keep the enemy off balance and moved the cavalry division forward toward Las Guasimas. The infantry divisions are still in Siboney. This is not supposed to be the main corps advance; it’s a reconnaissance in force to probe the Spanish defenses.”

  I could tell Wood was giving me the official version. He was a regular Army officer, so I knew he wouldn’t tell me his personal opinion, but I could well guess it.

  “Leonard, I’ve got to tell the Cuban commanders what’s happening.”

  “We in General Young’s 2nd Cavalry Brigade are the front of the cavalry division. My volunteer regiment forms the left side of the brigade’s advance. General Young and General Wheeler are with the regular 1st Cavalry and the regular 10th Cavalry on the main road with a battery of Hotchkiss 3-pounder field guns. They are the main effort of the operation. The division’s 1st Brigade under General Sumner is about two miles behind, coming up from Siboney right now. The infantry divisions are still back at Siboney.”

  The sound of rifle fire punctuated by cannon booms was incessant now, mostly over on the right but increasing again in our area. Few around me were paying much attention to it; some even laughed with nervous contempt. Suddenly a tree branch beside me was shredded by Mauser rounds. Everyone ducked.

  “That’s the third time,” muttered Rork. “Little buggers aren’t that bad at it.”

  Wood continued his assessment. “Look, my regiment can’t wait for the Spanish to leave their trenches. It’s too late for that. The brigade has already started its attack along the main road, so we’ve got to forge ahead up the trail and pressure this flank of the enemy. Major Brodie and I are taking the left side of our regiment’s advance along this ridge, and Lieutenant Colonel Roosevelt will handle the right side in the valley.”

  “I would be delighted if Captain Wake and his men could go with me, sir,” interjected a disheveled Roosevelt, who had appeared out of the mass of soldiers on the trail. He wiped his fogged spectacles with a monogrammed handkerchief and briskly grasped my hand, quickly nodding to Rork.

  “Fine with me,” said Wood as he left us and headed up the trail at the head of his own contingent. “Just get your troops moving, Theodore,” he called back. “And make solid contact with the left side of the regular regiments over there in the jungle valley.”

  None of what I had just heard sounded good to me. Shafter wasn’t ashore yet, the original plan wasn’t being followed in the least, and with Wheeler out on the front line, no one with any real authority was making command decisions back in Siboney as to where and how the Army forces would advance. I decided there was no reason to return to Siboney. Staying with Wood’s regiment seemed safer than wandering around the jungle by ourselves trying to find the Cuban battalion and perhaps getting shot by mistake.

  The left side of the trail was more open scrub, inclining up a ridge that ran parallel with the trail. The right side descended into the jungle we’d just emerged from and was crawling with enemy patrols. I glanced at Rork, for I value his intuition at times like this. He shook his head in disgust and started off behind Roosevelt, who was already heading up the trail and peering off to the right. I guessed he was looking for an opening in the green maze through which to take his troops into the valley.

  “I suggest we follow the goat path. It’s just ahead to the right. It’s a hell’uva lot faster than cutting a new route,” I said to Roosevelt. “The vines and bushes are too thick.”

  “A goat path, eh? Excellent idea—as I would expect from a man of your experience! No sense in useless expenditure of effort,” he replied with a grin. “Save that for dealing with the enemy. Say, would it be too much to ask if you would kindly lead the way to your providential goat path, sir?”

  “Very well, follow me,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

  20

  Facing the Elephant

  Las Guasimas, Cuba

  Friday, 24 June 1898

  FOR ALMOST AN HOUR we descended back into that hellish jungle valley. Our pace was much more careful as we constantly looked for enemy ambushes on the ground and up in the trees. Noveno led us around the Mambi traps, several times deciding it was better to leave the goat path and cross some slough or swamp before returning to it.

  The incurable naturalist in Roosevelt was fascinated by the flora, though there wasn’t much in the way of fauna. He kept an ear out for birdcalls—he is very good at identifying birds by their sounds—and softly told me he hoped to register some rare exotic find in the midst of the war. It would be quite a scientific coup, he said. Tired of his endless enthusiasm, I suggested his pursuit of fame was doomed because any birds that had survived the cannonading had gotten the hell out of here. I further suggested that made them much smarter than us.

  In fact, the only ornithological sounds to be heard now were the fake trills of enemy soldiers signaling each other, probably about our progress. Theodore wasn’t fooled in the least, promptly judging these to be “mere Iberian imposters” and whispering that their efforts were “truly abysmal parodies of the well-documented West Indian Goatsucker, otherwise known as the Greater Antillean, or Cuban, Nightjar, whose actual scientific name is Antrostomus cubanensis. Of course, Peter, that particular bird is a form of nighthawk, and doesn’t actually suck on goats, as everyone knows.”

  I was damn near suffocating from the heat and felt like choking him into silence. “Of course, Theodore. And I’d so been looking forward to seeing a goatsucker.”

  My sarcasm was lost on Roosevelt, who, momentarily happy in his ornithological diversion, answered, “Oh, quite right, old man. You know, being at war is no excuse for ignoring these unique opportunities for academic progress. Now, where the devil is the enemy?”

  In a startling coincidence, a new blast of furious shooting erupted to the east, where the white 1st and Negro 10th Regular Cavalry Regiments were fighting their way up the main road. Several far more accurate rounds arrived from enemy sharpshooters closer to us, once again making everyone duck.

  Occasionally one of these snipers was successful and a trooper stopped to stare in disbelief at a spreading bloodstain on his uniform. Many were junior officers. Almost all the wounded were left alone where they fell on the path with the empty-sounding promise that someone would come for them afterward. Tellingly, I never heard any of them complain.

  Eventually, after sweating gallons, fruitlessly swatting at the bugs that crawled on our bodies everywhere, and drinking most of our canteen water—an understandable but serious mistake—we neared the main road. Several times we spotted figures moving in the shadowy distance but were unsure if they were Spanish enemies
or Cuban allies, since both wore similar straw hats. Erring on the side of caution, we did not shoot them.

  I noticed Theodore was readily asking the men around him for their suggestions, then intently listening to them. He quietly conveyed to me his greatest frustration, which was not being able to identify the enemy’s location and therefore directly engage him. Nothing was as simple as he had envisaged back at Tampa.

  I found his dilemma paradoxical, for guerilla warfare in a tropical forest is a thinking man’s game of deception, maneuver, and attrition, as the Mambi tarantula wasp trap demonstrated. Roosevelt, one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever known, instantly hated this type of combat. He seethed against our situation, uncharacteristically uttering coarse oaths after seeing his men drop from sharpshooters. When a Mauser bullet bored through the tree he was leaning against, inches from his face, he let loose a string of epithets equal to Rork’s best. I wasn’t even aware Theodore knew those words.

  In an ironic twist of fate, the first to spot the enemy was not Noveno or one of Roosevelt’s western hunters but a famous New York City war correspondent who had tagged along with us in the hope of seeing some action. Richard Harding Davis was an impossibly handsome, composed, and urbane gentleman of the world. Somehow he managed to maintain his savoir faire even in the midst of all the lead flying about him.

  Our column had stopped for a brief rest. Reposing comfortably on a fallen log, complete with a notebook on his knee, Davis indicated someone across an open area of scrub bushes. As if watching a competitor in a yachting regatta, he casually mentioned, “Why, there they are, Colonel Roosevelt. Look over there, near that large tree, which I believe is a mahogany. I can clearly see Spanish army hats with red cockade emblems on them moving about in the bushes. The Cubans don’t wear those emblems, so I presume there must be Spanish soldiers beneath them. Regulars, I’d wager.”