1882: Custer in Chains (22 page)

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Chapter 12
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W
ith swords waving, Spanish officers shouted and made serious attempts to keep their men in order as they advanced towards the American lines. It was a truly impressive display as they moved out through the heavy foliage in reasonably precise lines. Unit flags flew while drums pounded, and bugles blared, all designed to bolster the bravery of the attackers and intimidate the defenders. Ryder had to admit that it worked, but only to a point.

Although he’d been in combat, it had usually consisted of skirmishes that were small, nasty, and over quickly. Even Custer’s fight on the Little Big Horn had involved relatively few soldiers compared with the mass of humanity that was approaching him. This was the first time he’d seen an actual battle involving large numbers of men on each side. At one level it was thrilling; on another it was frightening. His impression was that they were all advancing to kill him. His stomach was churning and he felt a strong urge to urinate. He wondered just how his men were taking it. Probably just the way he was, he concluded.

Although seriously outnumbered, Ryder’s soldiers did have the advantage of being in strong defensive positions, which gave them a sometimes false sense of security. Most of their bodies were protected, unlike those of the Spaniards who were out in the open and fully exposed. In theory, the defender had the advantage. In reality, people on both sides were going to die bloody and agonizing deaths.

As the Spanish lines reached a predetermined point, Ryder gave the order and his cannons finally began to fire. Shrapnel and grape chewed into the Spanish ranks. With his telescope he could see white uniforms turning red and bodies being ripped to shreds. Spanish officers screamed and tried to maintain order.

“It’s like Pickett’s Charge,” said Haney, “or maybe that stupid attack at Cold Harbor.”

Ryder had to wet his suddenly dry mouth before answering. “You were there?”

Haney chuckled, “Gettysburg no, but Cold Harbor, yes. I was fifteen when I stupidly lied my way into the Army. I thought it would be glamorous and glorious. Christ, was I wrong, General. I watched as an attack involving thousands of men was cut to shreds because the almighty General Ulysses S. Grant made a terrible mistake. It was just about my unit’s time to go forward when someone with half a brain called off the attack. Damn, I was lucky.”

“Luckier than those poor bastards,” Ryder said, looking at the steadily advancing Spanish.

The Spanish formations were disintegrating into a horde as more and more shells rained down upon them. True to human nature, they sought comfort with each other and bunched up, making them even easier targets to kill. When they reached the painted markers that said they were within rifle range, close to three thousand weapons fired. Unlike slower-firing muzzle-loaders of the Civil War, modern American rifles were breech-loaders and both firepower and accuracy were greatly increased. Just as important, shooters didn’t have to stand up or turn away from their targets to reload. More enemy soldiers went down like wheat being scythed. But still they came on. Some Spaniards were fleeing, but most bravely continued on.

American officers and NCOs could be heard yelling for their men to fire slowly and carefully and to aim low. There was a normal tendency to fire high and a bullet over the head went nowhere, but a bullet into the ground might just ricochet and hit something. As the Spanish reached the barbed wire, they paused, confused. They had never seen this kind of barrier before. Men behind the first ones collided with them, pushing and shoving them into the wire. The wire was a terrible thing. Spanish soldiers pulled at it and it ripped their hands to bloody shreds in the process. They tried to climb it and got stuck, tearing the flesh of their legs and bodies. They milled around and didn’t know what to do.

Ryder was about to wonder where his Gatling guns were when they began adding their insane chatter to the already hideous din. Hundreds of bullets a minute ripped into the Spanish masses. Men fell and Spanish soldiers behind them tried to climb over them or use the bodies as shields. Stymied, the Spanish began aiming and firing at their tormenters, finally causing serious American casualties. Clouds of gunsmoke confused both sides. In some cases, visibility dropped to zero, but both sides still blazed away. Spanish bullets whizzed by while others smacked into the earthen embankment with a thud, and a few found flesh.

“We should be in the front line, General,” Lang said.

Ryder shook his head. “Like I told you a hundred times, your men are sharpshooters and I want them where they can be best used, and not mixed in with the brawl.”

“I know,” said Lang. He looked like a wolf wanting to pounce.

Ryder suddenly realized that Lang was correct. The Texans should be in on the killing. “Bring your men forward now. Have them shoot into that mob but tell them to concentrate on officers and anybody who looks like he’s getting through the wire.”

Lang had been right. He should have used the Texans sooner and he should have had some men specializing in killing officers shooting at them in the first place. He swore at himself. He still had a lot to learn.

Soldiers in the American lines were beginning to fall. With only their heads and shoulders generally exposed, the wounds were hideous and often fatal. A couple of men broke and ran screaming for the rear. Haney shot one of them in the leg and the other got away. Ryder desperately wanted to see what was happening behind and below him with the rest of the army and Sarah, but he dared not. He had to be a strong leader for his men. He could not turn his back on the enemy no matter how badly he wanted to.

* * *

“Hold,” said Sergeant Kelly. “Hold until I tell you to fire.”

“Why don’t you wait until they are in our fucking laps, Sergeant? Or do you want us to see the whites of their eyes?”

“Why don’t you just shut up, Corporal Ryan.”

The howling mob of Spanish soldiers was only a couple of hundred yards away and coming fast. Ryan and Kelly were cousins who’d emigrated from Ireland a decade earlier and, even though they’d served in the army, this was their first real combat. A handful of skirmishes with Indians didn’t matter, in their opinion. It was also the first time they would use the Gatling gun since that day on the Little Big Horn when they’d helped save the man who was now President of the United States from a terrible death.

They also found it amusing that the lieutenant who’d led them in their mad dash to save Custer was now their brigade leader. It was a small world, they thought every time the topic came up. It pleased them that the young general himself had recognized them and even said a few kind words to them, and laughed about shared memories.

The two cousins had left the army shortly after the Sioux had been defeated and tried several means of making a living, including working on the railroad. They’d quickly decided that building the railroads was just too damn much work. A new war, chances of promotion, and steady money had induced them to enlist in the First Maryland.

Then they had volunteered to work a Gatling gun when a couple of them were assigned to the regiment. They’d had the mistaken notion that it might keep them out of close-quarters fighting. They hadn’t realized that the gun’s crew was exposed to enemy artillery or sniper fire. And now a screaming horde of Spanish soldiers was only a couple of hundred yards away. Rifles and cannons were killing them and it was time for the machine guns.

“Fire!” Kelly screamed.

“About fucking time,” said Ryan as he cranked the handle that fired the gun. Another soldier was in charge of feeding stick magazines filled with bullets into the gun where gravity put one in each of the revolving barrels. Still another reloaded the magazines as quickly as possible, thus keeping up a continuous rate of fire.

Kelly’s job was to aim the beast and, along with a fourth soldier, manhandle it to where the torrent of bullets could do the most harm to an enemy.

Lead rained on the approaching Spaniards, knocking them down and ripping into them. Screams from the wounded and the terrified filled the air, while smoke clouds enveloped them. Bodies piled up. Some had reached the barbed wire only to find that there was little chance of getting through. Getting tangled in the wire meant death. The Spanish attack faltered and they began to fall back. Still, the bullets chased them and found them and more were killed and wounded. The Spanish did not understand their tormentors’ new way of war and the retreat became a rout with wounded being trampled by the unharmed. Smoke now obscured the battlefield, so they simply fired where they thought the enemy would be. Soon, there was no enemy.

“Cease fire,” Kelly ordered. The smoke thinned and then disappeared. The hillside was blanketed with dead and wounded.

“Holy Mary,” said a stunned Ryan, “what the bloody hell have we gone and done? This isn’t war. This is a massacre.”

He gagged as the stench from torn flesh and bowels wafted towards them and others were becoming ill as well. They had forgotten just what a large bullet could do to the human body, smashing chests and ripping off limbs. And why men who were called wounded often never returned to battle or were able to lead useful lives.

* * *

Carlos Menendez looked up at the hill and could barely see the heads and shoulders of dug in riflemen staring down at him. He was as brave a man as any Spanish soldier, but the sight shook him. After two decades in the armies of Spain and having fought in many skirmishes and a number of battles, this left him very uneasy. Yes, the army commanded by General Weyler greatly outnumbered the Yankees, but these were not the Moslem tribesmen of North Africa nor were they the Moslem Moros of the Philippines. The Moros and the tribesmen were barbarians, savages. They would castrate and flay and then burn alive anyone they caught. The Americans generated a sense of quiet and deadly efficiency, rather than the shrieking and howling of the savages who would never dream of fighting a real battle.

He’d managed to avoid fighting his fellow Spaniards in the last civil war so he had never yet fought anyone European or American. These were the feared Americans. The Yankees had beaten England and Mexico along with the savages who’d once dominated the Americas. They had even fought an incredibly brutal civil war against themselves. They were tough and hardened soldiers and, worse, held the high ground.

The Americans were in trenches and well protected while his men would be attacking in the open. Many would die and he might be one of them.

For the first time since he’d enlisted, he wondered precisely why Spain was fighting in Cuba. It was clear that the majority of the Cubans he’d met and talked to wanted nothing to do with Spain, and how could he blame them? From what he’d seen since arriving, the Spanish government in Cuba was corrupt and incompetent and brutal towards its own citizens.

Carlos was sweating profusely and not just from the combination of brutal heat and heavy uniforms. He looked at the men in his squad and saw the same fear he hoped he was hiding. He cared for his men and they needed him to be calm. He was the only one with any real combat experience, even if only against savages. The rest were virgins.

Trumpets blared and officers shouted orders. Corporal Carlos Menendez barked at his men and they formed into ranks. More trumpets sang out and they began to move forward. While the captains and lieutenants waved their swords, Carlos urged his men to yell and scream. They did and it seemed to help calm their fears, but only for a second.

Guns began to fire and men began to fall. The soldier next to him screamed and grabbed his knee. A bullet had almost taken off the lower part of his leg. Other soldiers stared at the wounded man until Carlos pushed them and got them moving forward.

Another from his squad fell, this time with a bullet in his face. Carlos did not need a doctor to tell him that the man was dead.

The attack was losing cohesion. Formations were falling apart. A terrible screeching sound was heard, followed by a rain of bullets. These must come from the Gatling guns the Americans were said to have. The officers said they were harmless and not to worry about them. But men were falling everywhere and the attack was stalling.

His lieutenant grabbed him by the shoulder. “Get those men up that hill, Corporal. That’s the only way we’ll survive.”

Yes, he thought. Take the hill and the killing will stop. He looked for more men from his squad and saw only two. They looked at him and began running down the hill and away from the fight.

“Cowards,” he screamed.

Something hit him in the leg and he fell face forward onto the ground. He tried to stand, but couldn’t. He felt something sticky running down his leg. He was bleeding from his left thigh. The blood wasn’t pulsing so it wasn’t a serious wound, but he couldn’t stand. He also couldn’t go forward. Most of Spain’s finest had fallen and the rest were running back to their camp. Carlos could only crawl back down the hill, hoping that the Americans didn’t think killing wounded enemy soldiers was a fine sport.

They didn’t, and halfway down, a couple of soldiers grabbed him by the arms and helped him to an aid station. His leg was bandaged and he was laid on the ground as the cots had been reserved for officers and the truly seriously wounded.

Two days later, his captain came to visit him. Enough of the seriously wounded had died that he now had a cot. Carlos was the only man in his squad who hadn’t been either killed or very seriously wounded. The lieutenant who’d tried to get them to go forward had been shot in the stomach and had died screaming and howling the next day.

“You fought bravely, Corporal,” said his captain. “I saw you through my binoculars.”

Carlos wondered why the captain had been so far from the action that he needed binoculars. He kept silence.

“The doctors say you will not be fit for combat for some weeks, perhaps longer. Therefore, I am going to assign you to work with Lieutenant Flores as he works to recruit replacements.”

Carlos nodded and thanked the captain. He despised working to trap innocent and not-so-innocent men into the army, but it was far better than having his body savaged by American bullets.