Roving And Fighting (Adventures Under Four Flags) E-Book

Edward S. O'Reilly

• Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 373

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

This is a very rare book and a book of rare experiences. The author spent his early days on a Texas ranch. He enlisted for the Spanish War and finally went to Japan, where he opened the O'Reilly School of English in Kobe. He served as a bodyguard for a Chinese rent collector, took part in the great wheelbarrow strike, was bouncer in a Chinese theatre, instructor in the Chinese army, and once more was on his way, this time back to America. Ultimately he arrived in Chicago "hoboing" most of the way. Then came a great deal of experience in Mexico with Villa, Oroczo, Zapata and other rebel leaders.

Leseprobe

Roving And Fighting

Adventures Under Four Flags

Major Edward S. O'reilly

Contents:

FOREWORD

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

Roving And Fighting , E. S. O'Reilly

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Germany

ISBN: 9783849622763

www.jazzybee-verlag.de

[email protected]

FOREWORD

The chief merit of a tale of personal adventures is in its truthfulness. In writing this story of twenty years of roving and fighting in many lands I have had no notes or diary to guide me. With only memory as my guide I have had to go back over the long trail searching for incidents which might prove of interest.

In shadowy retrospection the years have passed in review, leading me back through The Spanish War, the Philippine insurrection, as an officer in the Chinese, Venezuela and Mexican armies.

The man who stays at home will perhaps wonder why the wanderer chooses to follow an aimless road to the odd corners of the world. The wanderer himself, could not give the reason. He pays the price for his freedom in hardships and loneliness. As a reward he finds a few of life's great moments, a wealth of memories, and broad horizons.

In setting down this rambling story I have found that it is the trivial incidents which sometimes stand out the clearest, while events of world importance have faded into the mist of the past. I have fought with a coolie on the docks of China for a dry loaf of bread. The only reason I got the bread was that I wore shoes and he did not.

That moment comes back with cameo detail, while long campaigns have faded into the background.

This is in no sense a book of travel, and makes no claim to historical value. It only lays claim to being the truthful tale of a vagabond soldier, as it might be told across the camp fire.

In closing I wish to express my gratitude to Seth Moyle, without whose friendship and encouragement this book would never have been written.

CHAPTER I

WAR had been declared, and I felt that I must go. From coast to coast America was swept by the hysteria of war. Bands were playing in the streets, and newspapers were issuing hourly "extras," calling upon the young men of the nation to rush to the rescue of the persecuted Cubans.

For many months we had read shocking stories of the starving reconcentrados and the cruelty of the Spaniards. This tragedy, enacted at our very door, had aroused the American people to a fighting mood. President McKinley had tried in vain to still the popular clamor for action. Then came the sinking of the Maine, and a break was certain.

That night I went home and announced my intention of enlisting. There was a discouraging lack of enthusiasm in the family circle. My parents declared that a boy of seventeen was too young to endure the hardships of a soldier's life. Of course I disagreed with them. Was I not six feet tall, and had I not learned to ride and shoot on a Texas ranch?

"Why, when I grow up and get a family of my own," was one of my passionate arguments, "I should be ashamed to look my sons in the face and tell them that their father refused to obey his country 's call. "

Strange to say, this plea did not seem to convince them. Then followed weeks of anxiety. The official investigating board was frittering away valuable time trying to place the blame for that disaster in Havana Harbor. Daily I haunted the recruiting offices, envying the new soldiers who were being sent away to fight the Spaniards. As they marched in squads to the depots, proudly aware of their blue uniforms, cheering crowds followed them through the streets.

"Remember the Maine!" was the cry heard so often that it became a litany of patriotism.

At last came the news that freed the tide. The investigating board in Havana reported that the Maine had been destroyed by a mine. President McKinley issued a call for volunteers, and Congress voted an appropriation for war.

That day I walked the streets of Chicago feverish with conflicting impulses. My duty to my parents called me home, and yet I had a wild desire to rush to the nearest recruiting office. Crowds surged along the sidewalks singing the "Star Spangled Banner. " A military band came swinging down the street playing "A Hot Time in the Old Town To-night," the marching-song of the Spanish War. A volunteer orator mounted a box on the corner and delivered an impassioned tirade against the Spaniards. Before he had finished his speech I had made my decision.

Half running, I made my way along West Madison Street and climbed the stairs to the recruiting office of the regular army. Many of my friends had joined the state militia, but I reasoned that the regular army would be the first to see active service.

My previous trips to the recruiting offices had taught me that a boy under twenty-one years of age would not be enlisted without the consent of his parents.

" What is your age?" barked a little gray-haired sergeant.

" Twenty-one," I replied.

"Date and year of your birth?" he demanded.

"August 15, 1876," I answered, confused by the knowledge of my patriotic falsehood.

"That makes you twenty-two," declared the sergeant, scowling. "Don't you know your own age?"

"Twenty-two it is; my mistake," I replied, in terror lest I should be rejected. What was a year or two as long as it was in a good cause? Enlistment records of the Spanish War show that the majority of recruits were just twenty-one years old.

After the preliminary questioning I was sent into an adjoining room, where a dozen candidates for uniforms were waiting. We were ordered to remove our clothing, and a doctor with whiskers and bad manners put us through the physical examination. Of the eighteen men who signed the roll that morning only six passed the examination. Much to my delight, I was one of the lucky ones.

We were ordered to dress. An hour later the officer in charge of the station bustled into the room.

"Fall in," he snapped.

Awkwardly we shuffled into line. With our right hands held high, we repeated the oath of enlistment, pledging ourselves to defend the United States against all her enemies for a period of three years, unless sooner discharged.

At last I was a real soldier! As I stood grinning in boyish pride, I little dreamed that this was the beginning of a long trail that would lead me around the world, or that I should stand on the firing-line under four different flags. The officer left the room, and I turned to speak to a tall youth named Herbert Mifflin, who had taken the oath by my side. It was fortunate that we could not look one short year into the future to the time when this same boy would die in my arms on a tropical battlefield eight thousand miles away.

The little gray sergeant took charge of the party and proceeded to lecture us on the duties of a soldier. We gathered from his remarks that an old soldier must be regarded as an exalted being, filled with all wisdom, and that a "rooky" must walk in humility before his superiors. We also learned that there was a mysterious and awful code known as "The Articles of War," which would deal us "death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct," unless we obeyed orders.

After we had been sufficiently humiliated, the sergeant dealt out our uniforms. Each man received shoes, a pair of trousers, a blouse, a campaign hat, and a blanket. What matter if my blouse was built for a smaller man, or if my trousers were too short? At least they were army blue, and I was satisfied.

Of the six recruits sworn into the service that day, one was a blacksmith, one a city fireman, one an escaped convict who had enlisted under an assumed name, and three of us were youngsters from high school and university. The sergeant escorted us through the streets to the Northwestern Depot. As we marched, the crowds cheered us, imploring us again and again to "Remember the Maine."

At the depot the sergeant selected the ex-convict as the most trustworthy-looking man of the party and handed him our railroad tickets. An hour later we arrived in Fort Sheridan, Illinois. It was evening, and the garrison duties were over for the day. As we marched down the long stone barracks, groups of soldiers, lounging on the porches, greeted us with sarcastic humor.

"Hey, rooky, take that pump out of your back!" " Look at the Johnny-come-latelies! " " Get on to the guy with the high-water pants! " these were a few of their remarks. Our precious new uniforms did not seem to inspire the proper respect. One wit followed us down the sidewalk, singing:

"Left, left; had a good home, but I left.

Eight, right; left, but I had a good right."

We were learning the lesson that a rooky is by tradition a humorous animal and is permitted to exist for the sole purpose of entertaining the old soldiers.

That night we slept in recruit quarters and the next morning mustered before the regimental adjutant for assignment to companies. I was ordered to report to First Sergeant Tommy Dolan, of B Company, Fourth United States Infantry. After my pedigree was entered on the company books I was marched to the mess-hall and turned over to the "spud" sergeant for cook's police.

Alas, for my dreams of the pomp and pageantry of military life! My first day in the army was passed in the root-cellar under the kitchen, peeling potatoes for hungry soldiers.

That night I was assigned a bunk in B Company's quarters. My left-hand neighbor was a young man from Chicago, named Pete Goorski. Although he was an old soldier, he was not unduly conceited about it and volunteered to initiate me into the mysteries of preparing for inspection. Under his guidance I learned how to make my bed, pack my clothes in the locker, and attend to the other details of a soldier's life in barracks. That day we became "bunkies."

There is no word in the civilian vocabulary which quite expresses the full meaning of the word "bunky." Chum or comrade is inadequate. A bunky is one who shares your blankets, your grub, and on the march carries half of your " pup " tent. He is your partner in all things. As time went on, Pete and I became attached by the closest ties of intimate friendship. Our alliance of mutual affection ended only on the day that he was killed while leading a charge in the Philippine Islands. It was the same day that my friend, young Mifflin, died.

My introduction to the life of B Company was a pleasant one. I was made to feel that fate had been kind in directing me to the best outfit in the regiment. Our company commander was Captain Henry E. Robinson, known to the enlisted men as "Yankee Dan." He has always remained my ideal of an army officer. A strict disciplinarian, he always demanded from his men careful performance of all military duties. At the same time he was always working for the comfort and welfare of those under him.

"Yankee Dan does his soldiering with the company, and not at the club, " was a common saying in the barracks.

Our "top" sergeant, old Tommy Dolan, was a veteran of the Indian wars, and had seen twenty years ' service in the army. He was a hard taskmaster, but a general favorite. A good first sergeant is a gift of the gods. On his ability and sense of fair play depends the efficiency of the company.

Our first days in Fort Sheridan were crowded with action. At six o'clock in the morning we were routed from our bunks by reveille. Then came twenty minutes of strenuous setting-up exercises to limber our muscles for the day's work. After breakfast we scrubbed the barrack-room floors and made our beds. Two hours of drill followed, and then, in order, inspection of quarters, dinner, and two hours more drill in the afternoon. Between times we recruits were kept busy on fatigue details, chopping wood, or doing duty as cook's police.

At last came the longed-for orders to entrain and proceed to Tampa, Florida, where the regular army was mobilizing for the Cuban campaign. Our baggage was packed and stored away in the barrack basements. As the order had been anticipated, we were in readiness to move at a few hours' notice.

On the day that we left Fort Sheridan the post was crowded with friends and relatives come to say farewell. When the special train that was to carry us south pulled into the side track, the regiment was drawn up in heavy marching order on the parade-ground. Colonel Robert Hall, the regimental commanding officer, stepped out of the headquarters' office and gave a command to the trumpeter.

" Eight forward, fours right, march!" was the command. After long waiting, we were off to the front. With the band playing "The Girl I Left Behind Me," we marched down a lane of cheering civilians and boarded the train.

Our trip south will always live in my memory as a succession of patriotic young ladies handing pies and cakes through the car-windows. It was fortunate that the girls were prompted by this kindly zeal in " feeding the animals, " as our commissary department was a rank failure.

At one station in Tennessee a young lady stepped to the car-window that framed my hungry face and handed me a bundle containing a roast chicken and a sweet-potato pie. After I had thanked her, she said:

"I shorely never thought I 'd see myself feedin' a Yankee soldier."

"That 's all right, madam," I assured her. "I was born in Texas, myself."

"Well, I 'm glad you got the hen," she answered. "But I guess the Yankee soldiers are fightin' on the right side this time, anyhow."

After ruining that pie and "hen," Pete Goorski and I scornfully refused to accept our noon-time rations of soggy ham-sandwiches.

Upon our arrival at Tampa we realized that we were in the war-zone. The town was swarming with soldiers and newspaper correspondents in almost equal proportions. Our regiment detrained and went into camp near the bay.

That night I was introduced to the "pup" tent. Every soldier carries half of his tent around his blanket roll. Unfortunately, I was longer than the tent, and a lengthy section of my legs protruded into the wide, wide world. The "pup" tent is designed for economy of space, and that is the only purpose it fulfils. When I tried to draw my feet inside, out of the moonlight, there would be a howl from Pete; if I let them hang out the entrance, somebody always stepped on them.

After several nights' experience I solved the problem by placing a barrel in front of the tent at night and stowing my legs inside. As a result I was christened " Diogenes, " and "as long as O'Reilly's legs" became a synonym for the longest distance between two points.

My memory of Tampa is a confused nightmare of exhausting drill, in heavy marching order, on the hot sands. With maddening monotony we marched back and forth under the blazing sun, varying the routine by an occasional charge on a little hill near the beach. By actual count we captured that hill one hundred and forty times while we were in Tampa.

Despite the blistering heat, we were still clothed in our heavy blue uniforms. In fact they were the same clothes we wore during the entire campaign in tropical Cuba. It was only when we were shipped back to the cold North that light khaki clothing was issued to us.

It was at this camp that we made the acquaintance of "embalmed beef." It was a slimy, ill-smelling mess, disgusting in appearance and fatal in effect. Several of the men in my regiment died after eating it, but the majority of us refused to taste it, even though we were hungry. The soldiers in the ranks could not understand why our country, which we had enlisted to defend, could not afford to feed us.

Although there were mountains of provisions piled up in the railroad yards, it was a constant battle to get rations. The sacred old army "red tape" had to be unwound before we could get our beans. Everything had to be done according to iron-clad rules. Not a pound of bacon could we get until the requisition papers had passed through a dozen hands, been signed and countersigned, approved and entered, according to prescribed routine.

The rations were there in abundance. We could see them, but we could not eat them, because the clerical force of the quartermaster's department had broken down under the emergency.

After a week of drill we recruits were initiated into the mysteries of guard duty. We were impressed with the tremendous responsibilities resting upon a sentry and the absolute necessity of obeying orders.

Late one evening Private Trice, a lanky Georgian, fell into disgrace by taking his orders too seriously. As he was walking his post, trying to live up to the letter of the guard manual, a man in civilian clothes attempted to pass. Trice halted the stranger and ordered him to advance and be recognized.

"I am an officer of the camp," explained the visitor.

"Get out! What are you tryin' to give me?" responded Trice. "Officers don't wear them clothes. You might be a spy."

"I tell you I am an officer," retorted the stranger. "I am Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt of the First United States Volunteer Cavalry."

"Colonel nothin'," replied Trice. "You don't look like no colonel to me. I'll just call the corporal of the guard and let him size you up. And if you try to run away, I'll bust you over the haid."

So the corporal of the guard was called to identify the future President of the United States. Fortunately for the suspicious Trice, the future President accepted the situation with good humor.

Although we rookies of the regulars were made to feel that we were necessary nuisances, we were inclined to boast of our superiority to the state militia. They, in turn, sneered at us as professional soldiers who had joined the colors for mere money. Why any man should be tempted into military life by "thirteen dollars and a horse-blanket, " was never explained. This jealousy between the state troops and the regulars led to many private wars.

In our company we had an old soldier named Madden, who was always ready to defend the honor of the service at the slightest excuse. One evening he dragged himself into camp after a visit to town. Even the casual bystander could tell that he had been in a fight. His eyes were in mourning, his lip split, and his clothing torn and dusty.

"I want to announce right now," he declared with mournful conviction, "milish or no milish, there ain't no one man can whip that there Seventy-first New York Regiment. I know, because I done tried it. "

A soldiers' camp is always the breeding place for the wildest rumors. Daily we heard that Admiral Cervera had slipped past the American fleet and had bombarded New York or Boston. At last, on May 24, Cervera and his phantom squadron were discovered in Santiago Harbor, and the American war-ships under Admirals Sampson and Schley blockaded the port.

One morning an excited orderly came running through the company streets, shouting:

"We are off at last! Orders from Washington to move to Cuba."

This time it was true. That day our camp was a scene of busy confusion. We took down our dog-tents and packed our blanket-rolls, only to unpack them again and remain another week getting ready to start. Tampa Harbor was filled with transports, and we saw train-loads of rations and supplies being loaded.

After several false starts we were marched down to the docks, prepared to go aboard. To the eyes of a private in the ranks, that embarkation was a woefully mismanaged affair. Regiments were put aboard transports and then marched ashore again to make room for some other regiments. In some instances the property of a regiment was loaded on one ship and the men on another.

After waiting until late in the afternoon, the Fourth Infantry was assigned to the transport Cleveland, a converted tramp steamer. A battalion of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, negro soldiers, was also embarked on the same transport.

That night the Cleveland was towed out into the bay and anchored. We crowded the decks, listening to the serenading bands and watching the swarm of lights dancing like fireflies about the docks. Little, whistling launches darted from ship to ship, and search-lights were constantly exploring the outer bay.

It was a fascinating scene for a landsman who had never before seen salt water. Many of us sat up until dawn, thinking that we were taking a last look at American soil until we should return from the war. We might have saved ourselves the trouble, as we lay in lower Tampa Bay until June 14, seven days later. Rumors of Spanish warships near Key West caused the delay.

When the naval scout-vessels reported the coast clear, our fleet of twenty transports slipped out to sea. The ships steamed in three divisions, a gunboat acting as convoy for each division. Off Key West we were met by several war-ships from Admiral Sampson's fleet. They remained with us until we arrived at Santiago, where the main fleet was guarding the harbor entrance. For two days the transports lay off shore, while the warships bombarded the Spanish fortifications on the hills and searched for a landing-place.

When the order came to move inshore and prepare the small boats for going away, we received the news with cheers. We had come a long distance to fight Spaniards and were anxious to get at the job.

CHAPTER II

THE spot selected for our landing was at Daiquiri, where a wharf erected by a mining company gave access to the shore. Our division, commanded by General Lawton, was the first to take to the boats.

We expected to begin fighting at the surf -line and as the Cleveland pulled in we watched the hills back of the wharf for signs of the enemy. Groups of men could be seen moving among the trees. A gunboat steamed in close to the shore and opened fire with shrapnel on these men. We afterward learned that the soldiers we had seen were Cuban insurrectos , our allies, who had driven out the Spaniards before our arrival.

Back and forth from the ship to shore puffed the launches, towing lines of boats filled with soldiers. A heavy sea was running and the boats were overloaded, but the landing was made without the loss of a man. After our regiment was ashore we were marched a short distance inland and deployed.

It was during that afternoon that we had our first glimpse of the Cuban rebels we had come to aid. First cautiously by twos and threes, then eagerly in squads, they came through our ranks, curiously examining our equipment and begging for rations. They were a ragged, emaciated lot.

At daybreak the next morning we marched to the village of Siboney, a short distance up the coast. It having been reported that the town was full of Spanish soldiers, we were expecting a fight. As we neared the place we could hear the sound of firing ahead. It was the Cubans driving the Spanish outposts from the blockhouses. When we arrived there was no work for us to do. Our regiment was deployed in open order in the outskirts of the town.

Reinforcements were landed from other transports on Siboney beach, and General Shafter, commanding the expedition, made his headquarters in the village.

A few hundred yards away from our station was a small blockhouse, half-hidden by the trees. A Spanish flag floated from the roof. When my friend Trice spied the red and yellow banner, he conceived a brilliant idea.

"Say, kid, that blockhouse is deserted," he told me. " Them fool Spaniards was so scared they lit out and forgot their flag. Let's you and I sneak around through the underbrush and get it."

With elaborate caution we strolled back through the underbrush, circled around our line, and arrived at the blockhouse. Together Trice and I climbed to the roof and cut down the flag. Cautiously we sneaked back to the company, fearing that we would be court-martialed for leaving ranks against orders. Trice carried the flag folded inside his shirt. As we stepped back into line an officer approached.

"Were you the man who took down that flag?" he asked, stopping in front of the long Georgian. Though in fear of a reprimand, Trice admitted that he was the guilty party. As I had not been detected, I kept quiet.

"Well, my man, it was a brave act," said the officer. "I will recommend you for promotion."

"Holy cat-fish!" exclaimed the amazed Trice, "I thought he was goin' to slam me in the mill for bein' a thief, and here I am a regular hero."

The officer, however, confiscated the flag. I have often wondered what yarn he told about it to the folks back home.

That afternoon we pushed on a short distance beyond Siboney and put out our outposts. I was one of the men detailed to guard duty. It was my first night ashore in the tropics. Everything seemed strange and weird. From the jungle came noises strange to ears accustomed to the rattle of city streets. Great beetles droned like spent bullets through the air. The calls of the birds were unlike any bird-voices I had ever heard. We had been told that the enemies' outposts were just ahead of us, under the dark canopy of palm-trees.

Suddenly I heard footsteps coming toward me. I flattened myself against a tree and slipped a cartridge into the chamber of my rifle. Whoever was approaching was making no effort to keep quiet. The sound first came from the front, then from my right. A whole army of Spaniards was advancing.

The leaves of a dwarf palm rattled and swayed. I threw up my gun. Then a giant land-crab dropped out of the palm and fell sprawling on the sand. The bushes were full of them, popping their claws, scaring the wits out of greenhorn sentries. During the night occasional shots were fired along the line, but I believe that the majority were fired at these crabs.

The next day we continued our slow advance inland, forcing our way through tropical undergrowth. The heat was suffocating, and our thick woolen uniforms soon became soggy with perspiration. Our heavy blanket-rolls refused to ride our shoulders in comfort, and chafed raw welts on our skins.

A messenger came down the line that afternoon announcing that there had been a battle at Las Guasimas, on our left. General Young's cavalry brigade, consisting of two squadrons of the Rough Riders and one squadron each of the First and Tenth U. S. Cavalry, had jumped a strong force of Spanish soldiers. Sixteen American soldiers had been killed, including Captain Bucky O'Neil, Captain Allyn Capron, and Sergeant Hamilton Fish. It was the first real fight of the expeditionary force.

During the next few days we were constantly on the march. It seemed as if the commanding general had difficulty in making up his mind where to send us. Several times after a trying hike we were forced to retrace our steps. Sharpshooters posted in the trees ahead sniped at our advance guards.

With every step we took into the interior our rations grew slimmer. Tons of provisions were aboard the transports or in Siboney, but the organizers of the expedition had forgotten to provide transportation to bring it to the line. Only one wagon-road was available from the beach, and although the few wagons and pack trains worked day and night, they were hopelessly inadequate for the job. I can truthfully say that I did not have a square meal in Cuba from the time we landed until we were back aboard the transports.

On the night of June 3 our division was ordered to the extreme right of the line, with orders to storm the fortifications at El Caney the next morning. All night long we climbed the muddy trails, slipping and falling in the darkness, but keeping our sense of direction from the curses and complaints of the men ahead.

At daylight the four guns of Captain Capron's battery opened up on the stone fort that crowned the heights above the village of El Caney. Trenches radiating out on either side concealed the Spanish infantry.

Although we had been marching all night, there was no time for rest. Back and forth we were switched, forming into line for the advance up the hill. General Chaffee's brigade was on the right and General Ludlow's on the left of the line. Our own brigade, commanded by Colonel "Mollie" Miles, was placed in the center. Later in the day General Bates 's brigade came to our support.

During these manoeuvers we were under long-range fire from the trenches. Spent bullets came crashing through the trees, breaking branches as they fell. Wounded men were being carried past us to the field hospitals in the rear.

I have often been asked how it feels to be under fire for the first time. Confidentially, it is not a pleasant experience to be under fire the first, last, or any time. I started nervously at the sound of every crackling bullet, and had to exert all my will-power to keep from ducking my head like a manikin. We were assailed by an unseen enemy, and were denied the privilege of being able to shoot back at him.

Finally we began the advance. At a little clearing we were halted and ordered to pile our blanket-rolls by the roadside. Again we took up the advance, deploying in skirmish line. The bullets were coming faster now, whispering overhead or snapping with malignant sounds into the ground.

It was impossible to keep the line in proper formation. Sometimes we would be floundering through dense underbrush, struggling at every step. Again we would break into a clearing and rush in squads for the protection of the trees ahead. Once our company crossed a ploughed field and stopped to fire a few volleys. It was a great relief to be able to shoot.

Our throats were as dry as the soles of our shoes. Most of our canteens were empty, and we were suffering intensely from the heat and continued labor. At the crest of a knoll we halted and were given the command to fire at will. The Spaniards were firing high, their bullets going over our heads into C Company of the Fourth, which followed us. Several men of C Company were killed at that spot.

It was here that Lieutenant Bernard, our second in command, was shot down. He was dragged behind some bushes and stretched on the grass.

" Water here for a wounded man!" went up the cry, but there were no Gunga Dins at hand. All of our canteens were empty. My bunkie, Pete Goorski, saw a canteen lying in a cleared space ahead. He ran out and picked it up.

"It 's half full," he shouted, holding it up.

A half-crazed man from another company dashed out and tried to jerk it from his hand. Pete struck him with his fist. There on the top of that hill, under a hot fire from the Spaniards, the two men fought for possession of the precious canteen. Pete dropped his man, and running back handed the canteen to the hospital-corps man, who was bandaging the young officer. It was too late to save him. He died an hour later on the road back to the field hospital.

Captain " Yankee Dan" walked coolly up and down behind the line. He watched the Spanish position through his field-glasses, estimating the distance and correcting our sights. With hat held to the side of his face, he estimated the windage.

Again came the bugle call to advance, and we took up the double time. Ahead the trenches and fort of El Caney were in plain view. There was no brush now to give us cover. We trotted up the hill like a mob of automatons. That fort seemed the only goal in life worth striving for. Behind me I heard the voice of old Sergeant Dolan say:

"Guide right. Keep your distance. Don't bunch up."

His voice was as calm as on the drill-ground. We had been working toward that hill for hours, but now we were nearing the crest and the enemy showed no sign of quitting. I was surprised to notice a negro soldier running by my side. There was little semblance to battle formation in the line now. We were a mixed mob surging up that interminable slope.

The Spaniards were firing in volleys, and at every crash men were slumping to the ground. Suddenly a long-accustomed sound left my ears. Our artillery had ceased firing. We were near the trenches and the gunners were afraid of hitting their own comrades.

That last climb up to the breastworks was agony. My lips were swollen and dry, my lungs heaving, my feet staggering. Gone was the sensation of fear I had felt earlier in the day. I was obsessed by one thought to get to that trench and rest. I was too tired to yell.

A short distance to my right was the fort. Before us loomed the trenches, with broken strands of barbed wire looping down the slope. Dimly, through a film of dust and smoke, I could see the nodding straw hats of the Spanish defenders.

One last scramble and we topped the trenches. I stumbled in my weakness and fell to my knees. Dazed, I knelt and looked down into the ditch. A Spaniard below me raised his rifle, pointed it at my breast, and drew back the breech-bolt. Casually, as if watching a scene which held no personal interest, I saw him snap the cartridge into place. Lifting my gun, I duplicated his actions, like a stupid recruit learning to drill.

Suddenly I was aware of a figure leaping past me. It was an American soldier with gun uplifted. The gun swung down and the butt smashed the Spaniard in the face. As he fell, the bullet intended for me smacked harmlessly into the sand.

With a great effort I dragged myself to my feet. Looking down the trench, I could see a few Spaniards holding up their hands, kneeling in appeal before the Americans who came sliding in on top of them.

Almost at my feet a Spanish boy about my own age was crouched with hands held high. I shall never forget the look of terror in his eyes. Then the thought came that this boy was afraid of me. I had come to Cuba to fight Spaniards, yet here was one I had no desire to kill. Panting from weariness, I dropped into the trench and sat down on the bank by his side.

The charge was over; the hill had been captured.

I felt exhausted. My only wish was to rest and gulp the air into my lungs. From the right came the sound of cheering. Looking up, I saw the Spanish flag come floating down from El Caney fort.

A non-commissioned officer came running along the trench above me.

"Take your prisoner over to the left," he directed, pointing.

I turned and looked curiously at the boy beside me. For the first time I realized that he was my prisoner.

"Agua?" I said, shaking my empty canteen.

Chattering excitedly, he handed me his water-bottle filled with real water. It was the finest drink I have ever had. Motioning the young soldier to walk in advance, I marched off in the wake of the non-com.

A few yards away a group of white-faced prisoners were huddled under guard. Turning my prisoner over to the sergeant in charge, I walked on, looking for B Company. In the excitement of the charge I had become separated from my companions, who had attacked the trench several hundred yards to the left.

From far on the left came the steady roar of firing. In the distance I could see the fight at San Juan Hill. Little groups of dark figures were crawling up the slope. It was a duplicate of our own fight. Finally the American flag went up over the San Juan blockhouse, and a cheer came rippling down the line.

As I walked up to my mates of B Company, I heard a tired voice complaining thus:

"Not a chance for any grub to-night. This ain't such a hell of a trench after we've took it. Wonder if they'll let us sleep to-night?"

Gone was the nervous forgetfulness of battle. We were a weary bunch of men, thinking only of the elemental craving for food and sleep.

CHAPTER III

OUR hope for rest after the capture of El Caney was a vain one. We were doomed to another all-night hike.

Part of our brigade had continued on down into the village, and had driven the Spanish snipers from the houses. Pack trains brought up rations and ammunition. Our cartridge-belts were refilled, and each man was issued two days' allowance of hardtack, bacon, and coffee.

Orders were given to cook supper, which was also dinner and breakfast, as quickly as possible, since no fires would be permitted after nightfall. While my bunkie rustled an armful of dry wood and filled the canteens, I sliced the bacon and prepared the ingredients for a "son-of-a-gun" stew.

A "son-of-a-gun" is made of all the edible scraps in your haversack, fried in bacon-grease. Our stew that night consisted of a handful of rice, crumbled hardtack, and a couple of ounces of canned corned-beef. This we kneaded into a paste and fried in the crackling grease. While searching his haversack Pete had a splendid bit of luck. He discovered two real dried prunes, left over from more prosperous days. These prunes we toasted over the coals.

While we feasted, Pete, with his usual optimism, remarked:

" There 's many a poor soldier in this army tonight who hasn't a whole prune for his supper. They may think that this day will go down in history as the day El Caney was captured, but it won't. It will be emblazoned in the school-books as the day the art of roasting prunes was discovered, and you and I are the discoverers. That meek and lowly vegetable, the prune, will take on a new significance in our national life. Hand in hand, the Star-Spangled Banner and the prune will go marching around the world, blazing the pathway for American civilization."

Pete's prophecy was destined to be fulfilled. Since that time I have gone around the world under the Star-Spangled Banner, and always the prune has followed the flag.

After our hasty feed we stretched out around the smoldering fires, resting our aching limbs. Our rest was cut short, however, by the order to "fall in." Once more we shouldered our guns and marched off in the darkness.

Our hike that night was a repetition of the night before. From dusk until dawn we stumbled over muddy trails. We were so weary that we dozed as we walked. Hour after hour we kept up the slow march, until we became mere automatons. Like a line of sheep we followed the voice of "Yankee Dan," who kept calling his commands somewhere in the black distance ahead.

When daylight came we were again swung into skirmish formation before the little town of El Pozo. Then we learned that our brigade had been shifted from one extreme of the line to the other, and that it was to be our job to drive the Spanish soldiers out of the town before us.

After a hasty breakfast we began the advance. Hardly had the line moved forward before the fight began. During that day's battle I did not see a Spaniard, but there was no doubting that they were there in the jungle ahead. Constantly the bullets droned overhead or smacked in the ground.

Evidently the enemy were disheartened by the defeats of the day before. Steadily they withdrew, keeping up a continuous fire as they retired. Again we were climbing up the heights that surround the city of Santiago.

That night the firing ceased, and we were granted the longed-for opportunity to rest. A heavy chain-guard was posted, and throwing ourselves on the ground, we fell asleep. During the night the sentries kept up a desultory exchange of shots with the Spanish sharpshooters, but the weary men of B Company refused to let anything short of a general attack disturb their sleep.

At daybreak we again took up the slow advance, until we had topped the hills. Before us lay the city of Santiago, looking peaceful in the morning light. Lines of trenches ahead showed that the Spaniards had prepared to make another stand. We were ordered to halt and dig in. With our bayonets and mess-pans we scooped out hasty trenches, taking advantage of every bit of natural cover.

During a lull in the shooting we suddenly heard the sound of cannonading. It was heavy and continuous, but owing to the echoes in the Mils we could not locate its direction. At last this report ran down the line, shouted from company to company:

" Cervera and the Spanish fleet have gone out! They are fighting our boats!"

Finally, like the thunder of a passing storm, the heavy booming drifted away, became more and move faint in the distance, and then ceased.

"Well, one of two things has happened," declared one of our men. "If Cervera has whipped our fleet, then this army is marooned in this palm-garden without any grub. If Sampson has whipped Cervera, then the war is pretty near over."

At noon the shooting back and forth between the trenches died down, at last ceasing altogether. Although we did not realize it at the time, the actual fighting of the Cuban campaign was over.

That afternoon and evening we worked to improve our barricades. Details were sent to the rear for rations. The next morning, July 4, we learned that General Shafter had sent a demand for the surrender of Santiago. We also received the cheering news that Cervera's fleet was no more. Every ship had been battered into helplessness and driven ashore.

Those days between July 4 and July 17, when General Toral, the Spanish commander, surrendered, were the most trying of the entire campaign. By day we were soaked with rain; by night we were devoured by swarms of mosquitoes.

At that time our doctors had not discovered that the bite of mosquitoes causes malaria and yellow fever. We made no attempt to guard ourselves from the deadly pests, regarding them as necessary evils.

By the time we captured Santiago heights, fully half the command was suffering from malaria. Added to our woes was the constant fight for something to eat. Our transportation system had broken down. Only one wagon-road led from our base at Siboney to the firing line, and we did not have half enough wagons to supply the troops.

We lived from hand to mouth, never having a full day's rations ahead. Men fought over a box of hardtack as they would have fought over a box of gold dollars. On July 4 yellow fever appeared in the hospitals at Siboney. By the time the news reached the line, the reports, as usual, were much exaggerated.

When the Spanish garrison finally surrendered, we received the news listlessly. The surrender had been a foregone conclusion from the day Cervera's fleet had been destroyed. We wanted to go home, where we could eat and rest.

Perhaps the reader may feel that there has been too much complaint about the shortage of rations. Food is the one subject ever uppermost in a soldier's mind when he is in the field; mess call is his favorite tune. Men cannot work well unless they are properly fed. A full haversack may be heavy to carry, but it eases the mind. A soldier endures hardships and danger as a matter of course. They are part of the routine of his job. Three things he must have, or he will complain. Those three things are food, coffee, and tobacco.

With the surrender of Santiago, conditions were slightly improved. Our troops occupied the city, and supplies were landed at the docks. The rations were there, but again we were tangled in a web of red tape.