Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  On our left, Kent’s brigades managed to get most of their regiments into an assault line and began running across the shallow river. As we waited for the word to charge, increasingly worrisome rumors circulated along the road: Lawton was defeated to our right and retreating, the Spanish were pursuing him and outflanking us, Shafter was perilously ill and dying in his tent, Wheeler had come from his own deathbed to take command of the assault, the assault had been rescinded, the Spanish were attacking our rear, the Cubans had all run off.

  Meanwhile, the Signal Corps balloon was still bouncing along above us. Some senior idiot up in the balloon observing the overall attack excitedly yelled down to us in a stentorian voice that the enemy was now firing at us. As if we didn’t already know that. The officer’s announcement elicited a raucous round of comments about his eyesight, brains, and military skills.

  With perfect irony, this was when the Spanish artillery found us. It wasn’t hard for them—they just aimed for the ground under the big, fat balloon. Rork identified the artillery as the 6.3-inch Ordóñez guns on San Juan Heights. Airbursts of shrapnel scythed down around us, sending up clouds of leaves and causing a chorus of maledictions from those lacerated. Within minutes, more men lay wounded or dead on the roadside. The Spanish gunners managed to hit the balloon as well, and we took some satisfaction in watching the damned thing descend out of sight.

  We hunkered down and waited. The barrage lasted for almost another hour, during which Roosevelt was like an enraged lion trapped in a cage, barely able to conceal his supreme disgust. My companions and I got off the road and hid from the cannon bursts under a cluster of sabal palms. We watched Theodore as he sent runner after runner to his superiors with requests for orders to move, to attack, to do anything but sit there and die.

  Finally, in the late morning, a messenger arrived with orders to move forward to the river. But that was no remedy, for our ordeal got worse. The closer we got, the more accurate was the enemy fire. We were now in rifle range of the small fortified hill out in front of San Juan Heights. Men dropped all around us, some screaming, some cursing.

  Roosevelt’s orderly, a nice college boy from Massachusetts who enjoyed discussing philosophy, collapsed, mortally ill from fever and heatstroke. His replacement was ordered to run yet another communication to headquarters requesting permission to get completely off the road and advance to the river through the woods to the right. When the trooper stood to salute Roosevelt and acknowledge the order, he fell dead of a round through the throat. When Capt. Bucky O’Neill, Theodore’s favorite subordinate commander and a legend among the volunteers, went down with a bullet through his face, we just kept moving slowly forward.

  The road at last emerged from the confining jungle into semithick scrub woods and fields. Ahead we could finally see the Aguadores River. We were several hundred yards upstream from where the infantry division was trying to cross under murderous Spanish fire. Suddenly, the command was shouted for us to advance to the riverbank in skirmish order at the double-quick. A shallow area had been found where we could cross the river.

  The 10th Cavalry, a Negro regiment, crowded up right behind us. Some got among us. They were grim faced and quiet, their eyes constantly surveying the terrain. Ahead were the 3rd and 1st Cavalry Regiments, already spreading out and moving quickly across the open ground. I could hear Colonel Wood up there calmly calling out commands for his brigade to begin fording the river.

  We heard Wood order everyone to assault the hill beyond the river, even though the regiments were still intermingled. We started forward. Our regiment’s column stopped suddenly when we ran into the back of the 9th Cavalry. It was apparently the regiment’s reserve company, for the rest were attacking. Their captain said his company had orders to hold his position on the road, and he would not violate them.

  But they were blocking our progress. Roosevelt argued with the officer for twenty seconds, then simply ignored him and barged his men forward through the 9th, many of whom joined with us. Once past that obstacle, we followed a side trail through the scrub to the right. No one was ahead of us anymore.

  Finally in ground open enough for maneuver, Theodore didn’t hesitate. He immediately ordered his men to spread out in line abreast and attack. Atop Little Texas he charged toward the river, with my entourage running right behind him. As Roosevelt splashed into the water, the entire regiment, having spread out in attack formation, quickly waded into the shallow and narrow Aguadores. Little jets of water fountained up around us, rifle rounds from the hill directly in front of us.

  In the middle of the river we came across one of those memorably absurd sights you sometimes see in a battle. An officer named Pershing from the 10th Cavalry, whom I’d met in Tampa, stood in chest-deep water directing soldiers where to go on the far side, encouraging them on with extremely impious comments as bullets plopped close about him. I found out later it was he who had scouted out the ford and led the brigade across. Seeing my uniform, he bellowed to his black troopers, “Look! The Navy’s here, boys, so we know it can’t be that bad!”

  Once on the far bank, our regiment reformed and ran through a marshy field to a barbed-wire fence. As we ripped down the posts and strands of wire, a blast of grapeshot from the fortified house on the top of the hill tore through us. Two men to my immediate left went down. Next to me, Noveno twisted and fell in a crumpled heap. Once down, he never made a sound or movement.

  Fortuna checked him, then looked up at me, mouthing the word “muerto.” I could see that Noveno’s head was gashed open. There was no time to do anything more. Around us, troopers were pushing to get through the gap in the fence. We got up and ran with them, heading toward another line of barbed wire, this one more elaborate. A trooper arrived with wire cutters and began opening a gap, for the posts there were too stout and deeply set to knock down. Twenty feet of wire was cut and trampled down, then more gaps were cut open. The American cavalrymen rushed through. By now the Spanish rifle and artillery fire was a constant noise, just a part of the background. I couldn’t hear orders or the screams of the wounded, only the pounding of my own heart. Men were falling everywhere. There was no cover anymore, no place to stop or hide. We could only run forward, and we did. A hundred yards later we came upon the San Juan River.

  It was a bit deeper and wider than the Aguadores but still fordable. I was amazed to see Roosevelt still on his horse. He was leading his men into the coffee-colored water, seemingly oblivious to the danger, cursing fluently as I’d never heard him curse before.

  After crossing the chest-deep San Juan, we ran into more tangled lines of barbed wire in tall grass at the base of that first fortified hill. More damnable wire! Everyone fell to the ground, trying to get low in the tall grass; some simply collapsed, overwhelmed by the heat and exertion. I cursed Shafter bitterly. Lieutenant Law stared at me, and I stopped.

  Battle furor swirled around us. I could barely make out calls for wire cutters and medical orderlies. Finally, after what seemed an hour but was probably a couple of minutes, two troopers with cutters crawled forward and opened several holes in the wire fence. No one leaped up to run through them, though. The Mauser fire was too hot. Lying in a clump of tall weeds, I strained to find Roosevelt. Was he dead? How will I tell Edith?

  Right then I caught sight of Theodore, and a wave of relief went through me. He’d dismounted and left his horse untethered. Little Texas, skin frothed with sweat and head hanging low, was as exhausted as the rest of us. Ignoring the human chaos, the horse trotted off to gobble up a clump of dark green grass back by the river.

  Roosevelt dashed behind me over to the far right side of the regiment, issuing orders we couldn’t hear. The word passed back along the line to get ready to charge up the hill. Around me, men who a moment earlier looked like they couldn’t go another yard took a deep breath, adjusted their ammunition pouches and bayonets, then crouched at the port arms position, ready to dash forward.

  I heard a cheer from the right and saw our men moving up th
e hill. Roosevelt had remounted and was riding behind the line toward us on the left side, cheering on the troops as he went. They cheered back. Rejuvenated by his brief respite, Little Texas danced about as he gathered himself for the charge.

  As he passed me, Theodore yelled, “No more waiting, Peter. We go now!”

  A volunteer lieutenant nearby howled an Indian war cry. Our part of the line echoed him, rose, and charged up the incline. Several troopers of the 9th Regulars rushed forward next to us, their dark faces scrunched in concentration. On the ridge above us I saw Spanish soldiers pop up from trenches and fire down at us. We had targets at last! In our mile-and-a-half advance so far, we’d taken too many casualties without being able to see the enemy, much less fire effectively at them.

  That was about to change.

  25

  Kettle Hill

  Kettle Hill, Cuba

  Friday, 1 July 1898

  BLACK, WHITE, REGULARS, volunteers, cowboys, Mexicans, Ivy Leaguers, and Indians—the cavalry troopers took matters into their own hands. Within seconds of each other, different groups began running up the slope. The long period of frustration had ended. The entire brigade was going up the hill.

  Roosevelt was out in front of us all, galloping up the hill at full speed and croaking out unintelligible commands. Right behind him on foot was his third replacement orderly since sunrise lugging a rifle, pack, and extra ammunition as he ran after the colonel.

  Theodore jerked back on the reins when he arrived at another wire fence line halfway up. Two men of the 9th ran up and tried to tear it down to allow the others to get through. On the hill above, an entire squad of Spanish soldiers was blazing away at these easy targets as they struggled with the wire and posts.

  Theodore jumped off Little Texas and yelled furiously at the Spanish. The horse had a wild look in his eyes, much as his master did. Once set free, the horse ran down the hill for fifty feet and then stood watching the bedlam. Roosevelt never looked back for him.

  Squeezing through the gap in the wire, he yelled, “Follow me, men!” and headed for the Spanish shooters in the trenches near the building at the top. He and his orderly advanced at a fast walk, Theodore methodically spinning toward new targets, firing at them as if bird hunting. Two Spaniards dropped from the orderly’s rifle. Theodore’s pistol doubled over another. Half a dozen more Spaniards leaped out of their rifle pits and ran to the other side of the hill to escape.

  Five more troopers joined Roosevelt beyond the wire, then dozens more. Within minutes an incessant hail of rifle fire was raging up the hill, accompanied by a cacophony of various war whoops and epithets from the different American cultures they represented. By this point, the unit cohesion temporarily regained after crossing the river was gone.

  At the top, men from five different regiments merged into a chaotic mob. Filled with pent-up bloodlust after enduring the enemy’s continuous shooting all day, they gunned down the retreating Spaniards. Officers shouted orders and sergeants cursed to regain control over their men, but it was a free-for-all against the Spanish remaining at the top of the hill, a primitive melee where few prisoners were taken.

  My own gallant charge up the hill slackened from a lung-pounding trot to a weary walk. Halfway up, I suddenly wanted to know what time it was and pulled out my watch—one o’clock. That was a mistake. I hadn’t had any water since sunrise and was now desperately thirsty. I dared not drink from my canteen that early in the day, however, for I was certain there’d be no replenishment. So with an increasingly parched mouth, I trudged my way through the gap in the upper row of barbed wire and headed for the building on the ridge. Behind me marched my men, and I saw that even young Edwin Law was weary. That made me feel slightly better.

  The sound of Mausers had diminished by the time we reached the steep upper slope below the fortified farm building, but both Rork and I were ready for anything as we neared the enemy positions—pistols jammed in our waistbands, ammunition bandoliers crammed full, and shotguns held at the ready. To our surprise, by the time we got to the top there was no one left to shoot. The Spanish were gone. Roosevelt and the cavalrymen had taken the hill.

  General Sumner and some of his staff soon arrived on horseback. Looking worried, he kept glancing to the north toward El Caney as he conferred privately with Roosevelt. After a few minutes the general rode off to find his other regiment and brigade commanders, who were scattered across the battlefield to the left.

  From the summit I could see the entire panorama of the main defenses to the west on San Juan Heights. The light blue uniforms of the Spanish soldiers dotted the intervening shallow valley between our hill and their main lines along the plateau. I noted they were withdrawing in good order by unit and forming up over there. The battle for our hill had merely been a preliminary delaying affair for them.

  Gathering my little crew behind me, I headed for the shade of the building, which turned out to be a sugar mill. I found Theodore leaning against an enormous iron kettle next to the structure, examining a map while straightening his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t winded at all, greeting us with hearty handshakes and his toothy grin.

  “We did it, Peter. Did you see them? My boys damn well did it!”

  My congratulatory reply was interrupted by a Spanish artillery shell bursting overhead; the concussion stunned us. Shrapnel thudded into the wooden walls of the building and ricocheted off the kettle, nicking Fortuna’s shoulder. Everyone instinctively dove behind the six-foot-high kettle, Rork and me being the last to get under its lee.

  I examined Fortuna’s shoulder. It would need stitching to close the wound, after the hot metal had been dug out. I told Rork to take the major back to an aid station, but the Cuban refused. I made it an order.

  “Captain Wake, I promise to get aid after the battle, but the hot shrapnel cauterized the wound and the bleeding has stopped. And right now, our seriously wounded men need the attention of the doctors far more than I do.”

  Rork nodded sympathetically to Fortuna, then gave me a look that said to let it go. I did.

  More shells burst above us, and sustained rifle volley fire started zinging at us. The rifle fire came from the trenches at the closest point of San Juan Heights a quarter mile to the west. The artillery was from farther away.

  “’Tis that same bloody Ordóñez 6.3-inch battery,” Rork observed, pointing at it. “A wicked weapon, that. See it? Just a wee bit to the right of that blockhouse way over there an’ a bit behind it. Full marks to the bastards for some bloody fine shootin’—that last one damn near did me in. Can ye believe this? Hells’a poppin’, an’ it’s well past time for our big guns to have a go at those Spaniardo buggers.”

  Another Spanish artillery round burst nearby. Lieutenant Law was about to say something when Rork continued his commentary. What had begun with a professional assessment quickly reached high sarcasm born of anger. When Rork gets this way, you can’t shut him up, even in the middle of a battle, so I let him rant.

  “Ooh, but then again we can’t kill ’em back, now can we, lads? An’ why is that, you ask? Why, because the ignorant fools in charge’uv Uncle Sam’s friggin’ army in this blighted hellhole didn’t bother to bring the heavy guns ashore! All we’ve got’re light fieldpieces. An’ that stupid decision was made after they decided to run this giant misbegotten disaster too far inland for decent naval gunfire to help. Those grandee Spaniardo buggers must be laughin’ their bloody bollocks off over there. What a royal friggin’ cock-up this turned out to be. An’ lookee there, we’ve not even reached the main enemy lines yet.”

  Roosevelt stared at Rork apprehensively, never having seen him in such an insubordinate rage. Others around us were noticing his rant too. I would have to do something.

  “A bit testy today, are we, Chief Rork?” I quietly asked.

  “Aye, sir,” Rork shot back. “An’ with bloody good reason.”

  “Could be worse, though,” I calmly countered. “At least we’ve got this kettle to hide be
hind. Better than lying out there in the grass.”

  “Aye, that’s true, sir.” He blew out a deep breath in disgust. For a moment he said nothing more. Then a small smile showed on his sunburned face. “Well, I suppose this kettle is a bit like havin’ our very own ironclad, isn’t it?”

  “Any port in a storm, Rork,” I said, ducking a new volley of rifle fire. One round clanged off the kettle’s rim.

  Rork sniffed the air, and I saw a glint in his eye. I knew that look. Normally it warned me he was up to something—probably something against regulations and propriety. At this point I welcomed the change of subject.

  He smiled. “Ah, but there’s a happy side to this here port, sir. Smells like rum to me, an’ it’s drivin’ me mad as a hatter. Me throat’s dry as bone dust right now an’ could surely use a nip o’ nectar. Good for courage, don’t ya know. Suppose any’s around?”

  I chanced a quick peek over into the kettle. “It’s only the molasses you smell, Rork. Not rum. They took it with them when they fled.”

  That ended Rork’s happy mood. “Bloody hell an’ back—what’re the odds? Here we are at a rum mill in Cuba, ’uv all places, an’ nary even half a gill o’ decent liquor to be had. Damned unfair! How’s a sailor to fight properly? What happened to the spoils o’ war?”

  I said, “I fully agree, Rork. A tot would go down well right now. We’re too old for this charging up hills business without a reward at the top.”

  Another round burst in the air behind us to the east. A piece of hot metal zinged around the rim of the kettle, missing Lieutenant Law’s head by inches. He let loose an uncharacteristic string of oaths, which made Rork laugh. “Aye, an’ so sayeth the U.S. Marines! By God, now those bastards across the way’ll be scared!”

  Law reddened, and Rork quickly added, “Lieutenant, you’ve been saved by a rum kettle; a fine story for your grandkids someday. Come to think on it, that’s a right appropriate name for this nasty piece o’ real estate—so Kettle Hill it’ll be.”