Honoring the Enemy

by Robert N. Macomber

  An older woman’s voice came from behind me. “Maria, why don’t you and the gentleman take a walk outside for ten minutes before we get these men ready to go out to the hospital ship.”

  Maria motioned her thanks and led me out by the hand. We followed a path away from the tents and stopped in a clearing above a ravine. Thirty feet below us the narrow Siboney River rushed down from the mountains inland. We sat on a fallen log, and I held her. The sobbing soon ended, but her frailty filled me with worry. I’d never seen her this fragile, even when her son had been killed in Cuba six months earlier. She’d been here only a few days, but was she sick too? I kissed her, caressing her face, willing her to feel better, to smile, to show me any sign she wasn’t ill.

  “Maria, are you sick too?” I asked. “I didn’t get your letter until yesterday and figured you might be working here. I’ve only got a few minutes, but I had to see you.”

  She straightened up, took a deep breath, and bestowed her lovely smile on me. “Yes, I am fine, dear. Just a bit overwhelmed. This place is so—and then suddenly seeing you …” Her smile crumpled onto a frown. “Oh, Peter, your facial wounds are opened and infected. You look terrible, and filthy, like you have been crawling through mud. I thought you were on a staff with General García. How are your other wounds from before? Show me.”

  “I’m fine, dear.”

  “Show me that you are fine. I need to see them, Peter. And while you are doing that, you can tell me how you got here. Were you in the big battle?”

  I began unbuttoning my shirt. “I was on García’s staff but got separated and couldn’t make it back. So during the battle I was with Theodore’s regiment. He’s fine. Rork is too. He got too much sun and needed to rest, but he’s back to his old cantankerous self now.”

  She minutely studied the scars on my torso, then returned to the open ones on my face.

  I tried to mitigate her worry. “Maria, it’s just stress from exertion, that’s all. They’re not badly infected; don’t worry.”

  It didn’t work. Maria examined them anyway as I stood there with my ragged shirt and trousers open, hoping her superiors didn’t wander along. “Peter, they are infected. And these down here on your thigh are too. Here’s a new one on your arm.”

  “That one’s just a scratch, dear. I didn’t even notice it.”

  Her brow creased at my dismissive tone. “No, it is not just a scratch. It is a bullet wound. You need immediate care or the infections will get deadly. First of all, a bath. Then a covering with antiseptic solution will be applied to these wounds. Lastly, bed rest for at least three days.”

  “Well now, dear …”

  “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t have time! This damned war will last at least that long, Peter. You and Sean Rork are far too old for this sort of thing. And where is he right now?”

  In spite of her no-nonsense attitude I laughed, imagining Rork’s response to her opinion of our age and capabilities. “He’s off on a mission to get supplies for us right now, otherwise known as stealing them.”

  Her mood eased. “Everyone does that here. It is the only way to get anything.”

  “I can’t stay, Maria.”

  Her anger returned. “Can’t or won’t?” Then she instantly softened. “Oh, I am sorry, Peter. Please stay the night, at least. You’re exhausted, and those wounds require attention. I have a cot in a tent with two other nurses who will be working tonight. And there is a real bathtub in the tent next to it. Of course, my cot is narrow, but if we snuggle close …” The sentence ended with a pleading look. “Please, I desperately need to have you hold me through the night, Peter.”

  My heart melted as she held my face in her hands. I came close, very close, to giving in. But visions of the battle went through my mind. I knew I might be able to prevent another frontal assault if I could find a way to take the coastal forts from behind. The lives of thousands depended on it.

  “Maria, as much as I want to stay, need to stay, I can’t. I have something very important to get done. It’ll take a couple of days. Afterward, I don’t know where I’ll be—things are very much up in the air right now. I’m here now because I needed to see you, to hold you, even if for a moment. I needed to tell you I love you.”

  I brought her close. We kissed, lost in a long, deep expression of our love. Then she pushed away from me and studied my eyes. “This is not a staff job, is it? You’re going back into battle, aren’t you?”

  We had never lied to each other; there was far too much respect between us. But she knew sometimes I couldn’t tell her everything about my work. “No, it’s not a battle. But Rork and I, along with a Marine lieutenant named Edwin Law, have a chance to end this entire mess quickly. If I can, I’ll return here in a few days. Is that tub big enough for two?”

  She didn’t laugh at my jest. “No, it’s barely big enough for one. I wish you and Rork were out at sea, Peter. You’d be safer there.”

  “I’d be far more comfortable, that’s for sure. Cuba in July—not the most pleasant time of year to be here, is it? Not to mention the war.”

  Unlike many married couples, Maria and I had always been the closest of confidants. Perhaps it was because we married at a later age and shared similar life experiences. We both felt the freedom to share, without repercussions, our innermost opinions, dreams, and fears. Over the years our conversations on those topics had been cathartic for each and had strengthened our love. She had never been reticent in expressing her thoughts. But now, as we sat there at the edge of the jungle, both of us miserable in our griminess, I knew she was holding something back—something deep, serious, and painful.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  With that, Maria’s pent-up emotions came tumbling out.

  “Peter, I have learned more about the depths of human nature in the days I have been at this hospital than I ever imagined in my worst nightmares. The sickening sights here have showed me that war is the ultimate expression of madness. I was never naïve before. The death—the brutal murder—of my son showed me the depravity in some men, but I thought that sort of evil was limited to a very few. This place has opened my eyes to the horror and stupidity of the leadership class of every nation.”

  I was about to agree, but she wasn’t done.

  “If I ever hear another politician in Washington, including our friend Theodore, glorify war, I will forget ladylike social constraints and slap him right in the face. Peter, you are the kindest and most gentle man I’ve ever known in my life. I cannot understand how you could have ever devoted your life’s work to this—this brutal insanity. Why?”

  Her words stunned me. My wife was questioning my life’s work, my purpose. Then they angered me. “Maria, the first war I fought was to free black Americans from slavery. Two of my brothers died for that cause. I’ll make no apologies and feel no remorse for my role in that war.

  “After the Civil War I worked for years to get accurate information to the country’s executive decision makers so they wouldn’t make stupid mistakes and go to war in various places around the world.”

  I held up a hand when she tried to speak. “No, listen to me for a moment. Do not equate me with the glory-mongers in Washington or Madrid. You damn well know I’ve devoted years of my life to preventing this war. But politicians in charge on both sides wanted it, and everyone has known for a long time it was going to happen eventually. Well, it did, and my job is to make sure our country—the side for freedom for Cuba—wins it.

  “Right now I have an opportunity to end this damned thing before it drags on and even more men, thousands more, die. And yes, Maria, I wish to hell Rork and I were at sea too, but we’re not. For right now we’re stuck ashore, smack dab in the middle of this mess.”

  The absurdity of my wife being ashore in a battle area and me having to leave her made my anger and voice rise even further. “And let me tell you something else, Maria. I am not thrilled that you are here. I understand you are committed to doing something positive to hel
p our country, but this is not what you should be doing or where you should be doing it. I want you out of here on the first ship heading north.”

  “You suddenly arrive and start ordering me around? I will leave when I decide to leave.”

  Maria gets defiant when backed into a corner. Unfortunately, my diatribe had done exactly that. Her commitment to help the sick and wounded stemmed from the personal tragedies she’d endured. It was her way to move forward meaningfully in life, to help right some of the terrible wrongs of the world. Her devotion to peace was at the core of her being and a major source of my respect and love for her. And now I’d dismissed that, just as she’d questioned my core beliefs. The war had done this to us, intruding into our bond, something I’d never thought possible.

  I took a slow breath and drew her close again, though she resisted at first. Speaking softly into her ear, I tried to soothe the harshness of my words. “Just please be careful here. Remember, on top of everything else, you are Spanish born—and that makes you the enemy in the eyes of some Americans.”

  She jerked back. “You think I am ignorant of that? Do not lecture me, Peter. I came here to help heal Americans and Cubans and yes, even Spanish soldiers who are prisoners. This is exactly what the Red Cross is doing, in spite of the U.S. Army Medical Corps’ outright rejection of our initial efforts. The Army’s prejudice didn’t last long once the wounded began to arrive by the hundreds, let me tell you. They were glad enough for our help then.”

  I reached for her hand, determined to end the acrimony. “Please don’t confuse me with them, Maria. Don’t confuse my worries with a lack of respect for you. I adore you, but I fear for your safety.”

  “Maria!” the older nurse called out from the tent. “Time to get the patients ready.”

  The anger in her face eased, and her eyes misted up again. “I know you love me, Peter.” She nuzzled close again. “I love you, too. But I have to go now.”

  She placed my hand against her soft cheek. “I hate these goodbyes. I think we should say say au revoir, as we did back at Tampa.”

  The frightful moment was over. We stood, and I wrapped my arms around her tightly. My eyes were misty too. “It’ll never be adieu for us, Maria. Only au revoir until I return for your love.”

  I had to add a little levity. “And that bath. We haven’t had a bath together for a while. Remember the last time?”

  With a shy smile, she reminded me, “I do, but this is a very small tub, Peter.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  We kissed again, neither of us wanting to part from the embrace. In the end it was Maria who was stronger and walked away first. I watched her head back down the pathway, my heart filled with worry and admiration for her. I sat there for some time thinking about what she’d said about my career choice, my life. And then I left to find my comrades.

  They were in the village sitting under a bullet-scarred coconut palm. Their assignments had gone well. Rork had found food, and Law had obtained new uniforms. Rork even gave Law an accolade, proclaiming him a “first-class purloiner, worthy o’ the finest swindlers in the fleet.”

  First, we ate. Since we were in the rear it was real food—roast beef from the Army officers’ mess nearby and a flask of whiskey from a medical chest. Then we changed into the new uniforms, putting the coats into the seabag to protect them from the dirty journey back to the front.

  Refreshed to the best extent possible under the circumstances, we joined a column heading up the road to Santiago, a regiment of volunteer infantrymen from New York who had just landed. They were quiet, nervously gaping at the alien sights around them as their boots plowed through the mud in the noonday sun. Several stared at the hospital as they passed by. I asked an officer where they were going. He shrugged and said, “The front at Santiago.”

  From the hilltop I looked back at the hospital, thinking of my wife working with the wretched sick men inside that sweltering tent. A preposterous sight on the beach abruptly drew my eyes, stopping me in my tracks. Rork and Law stopped and studied it too.

  Law asked, “What the hell’re they doing down there?”

  Down on the beach under some coconut palms, with the blue Caribbean as a backdrop, one of Tom Edison’s moving picture crews was filming an officer riding a horse. I’d never seen a film being made, though I had heard a rumor the crews would be in Cuba. Dozens of soldiers from the regiments landing at the pier stood watching as well. A small man in civilian attire shouted directions at the cinematic operators and the man on the horse. The officer reenacted the scene several times, each time waving his hat gallantly for the camera while looking sternly at some imaginary enemy in the distance.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Rork muttered. “Those buggers’re playin’ at war for the folks back home while them actually fightin’ it ’re livin’ an’ dyin’ in trench mud up there at Santiago with nary a decent bite to eat or tent to sleep in. No wonder this army’s so bollocks’d up.”

  The man on the horse was obviously an actor. He was just too crisp and jaunty to be a real soldier. The blatant theatrics, so unrealistic as to be disgusting to us, would be shown to audiences back in the States as a depiction of our noble conflict in Cuba against the evil Spanish. I had no doubt the film would be quite popular—until the hometown newspapers began publishing the casualty and sick lists.

  We rejoined the New Yorkers on the road heading back to the real war.

  33

  Getting the Lay of the Land

  Santiago, Cuba

  Saturday, 9 p.m., 2 July 1898

  THE ONE NIGHT I needed it to rain in Cuba and cloak us in invisibility it didn’t. Instead, the sky was clear of clouds, even over the mountains, for the first since I’d landed on the island weeks before.

  As we crept through the low hills, a full moon bathed every nook and cranny in silvery light. We wore our uniform coats to show our nationality and profession—a precaution against being shot outright as spies if caught. Though our uniforms were dark, the moonlight lit up our faces as if by stage gaslights.

  With me in the lead, then Rork, and Law in the rear, we slowly made our way through the upland scrub west of the San Juan River. By my reckoning we were heading southwest toward El Morro. Our position was about two miles from the river’s mouth at the Caribbean and a mile south of where General Bates’ infantry division was gathering at the southern, or left, end of the American military lines facing Santiago. We’d left them an hour earlier in the half-light of dusk and followed the riverbank until I decided we should tack to starboard and head toward the Spanish—wherever they were.

  A flat, open area came into view ahead, and we made out the Juraguá Iron Company railroad line stretching from the point where it turned inland on the coast toward Santiago to the northwest. Commercial rail traffic had ceased at the beginning of the war, and I was surprised the Spanish hadn’t removed the rails to prevent its use by the Americans. The railroad sighting was good news because it provided a geographical validation of my dead-reckoning land navigation.

  We’d arrived at a decision point. Should we follow the tracks to the northwest or continue southwest across the countryside toward the coastal forts? Both courses would be valuable in ascertaining whether the enemy had positioned troops in the area to thwart an American advance. By my estimate, about a mile to the northwest the rail line would intersect with the wagon road between Fort Benefico at Santiago and El Morro at the mouth of the bay. Since that road could be crucial in an attack on either El Morro or Santiago, I chose to follow the rail tracks to the road and then turn left to the southwest toward El Morro, reconnoitering for signs of troops, vehicles, and defensive works along the way.

  My two companions offered no objections or better suggestions. We stayed slightly off to the right of the track bed, on constant guard for an ambush. For an hour we headed across a rolling countryside of small sugarcane farms and patches of fruit trees. It was slow going but not unduly difficult. We had not seen a single Spaniard, which made me s
uspicious. Were they well hidden, or were the Spaniards so short of manpower they didn’t have the men to occupy the area?

  After crossing over to the left, or west, side of the tracks, we followed a shallow ravine that loosely paralleled the railroad to avoid silhouetting ourselves against the horizon. I had just consulted my pocket watch at 9:38 p.m. when our leisurely hike suddenly ended.

  Rippling tongues of flame erupted in front of us with a booming roar. The flashes of light blinded me, but I could tell that at least a platoon had fired a volley at us. Volley fire was a characteristic of the Spanish conscript regulars, as opposed to the Cuban pro-Spanish guerillas and the anti-Spanish Cuban rebel insurrectos, who preferred individual fire.

  We instinctively hit the deck, with Rork immediately scooting off on his knees to the right to see if there was a route to flank the enemy position or escape their fire. Law came up on my left, his rifle pointed to the south, or left, flank, ready in case they approached from that direction.

  The next volley was lower and much closer. I heard the rounds zing right above us—Mausers. The Spanish had corrected their elevation. Rork crawled back and reported men moving toward us on the right. That meant our only option was to head along the ravine to the left. I sent Law to scout it out.

  A third volley rang out, followed by an officer shouting for us to surrender, calling us “descendants of Spain.” They thought we were Cuban rebels. While I tried to figure out how I could take advantage of their misidentification, Law returned and whispered that the ravine was clear for fifty yards. I told him to lead the way.

  So far we had not fired a shot, trying to conceal both our exact position and our meager strength. The enemy platoon came at us from the right as we tried to escape to the left. Significantly, their charge was without the usual bugle call. That omission told me we faced less than a company. Probably a sole platoon on patrol and, if we were lucky, led by an inexperienced junior officer. The next volley, fired from the hip as they charged, went right into the location we’d just vacated. I knew we didn’t have much time to escape.