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 so 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.
* * *
Sarah tried not to think. She had come to Cuba to help heal the men fighting the war and now the war was upon them in all its fury. Cannon from several directions thundered and then the clatter of rifle fire could be heard. The Spanish were attacking at the point of the bay and at the hill where Martin commanded.
“Casualties,” someone yelled and the first of the mangled were led or carried in. Behind was what looked like a never-ending stream of them and the sights were worse than she had ever imagined. She wanted to scream at the sight of some of the wounds. Men had limbs ripped off and others had been disemboweled, with intestines and bones clearly visible. The man with no face that she’d been afraid to treat receded into the recesses of her mind.
Clara Barton had given herself the terrible task of dividing the wounded into groups-those who could be saved by treatment, and those who should be left to die after being given enough narcotics to numb them until they slipped away quietly and peacefully.
Several priests and ministers were trying to bring solace to the wounded and sometimes it helped. Sometimes the wounded just screamed louder because they thought the presence of a churchman meant that they were going to die.
A boy on a cot close by to her was sobbing for his mother. He looked about sixteen and Miss Barton had decided that his wounds were mortal. He would never see his mother again. Sarah helped Doctor Desmond set some fractures and held a man’s arm while he extracted pieces of metal from it.
The man looked up and saw Sarah. “You better run while you can,” he said. His eyes were wide with fright and pain. “There’s millions of them and they’re gonna kill everyone. And what they’ll do to the women can’t be said.”
She wondered if it was true. If the Spanish broke through, what would happen to them? Would the Red Cross flag be enough to save them or would a vengeful and angry Spanish army kill the wounded and then rape and murder the nurses and doctors? She’d heard that sometimes even the best of men sometimes went crazy during battle. From what she was seeing, she believed it.
A few more wounded were beginning to come down from the hill. She stole a look to see if she knew any of them. She didn’t and felt a mixed sense of relief. But that didn’t mean that all was well with Martin. He could still be lying up there, bloody and broken. Perhaps he was crying for her as the boy had cried for his mother. She wanted to sob but couldn’t afford the luxury. The numbers of wounded were backing up.
She became aware that the firing had died down, almost stopped. There were scattered cheers off in the distance.
General Miles entered the tent and looked in on the wounded. He appeared harassed, she thought, and why not. He took off his hat and waved it, getting their attention. “We stopped them, boys. We killed a ton of them. They won’t be back for a long while.” With that he waved the hat once more and left the men in the tent.
A wounded man missing an arm lay on a cot beside Sarah and snorted, “At least the dumb fucker didn’t ask for three cheers. I would have waved my stump instead. Oops, sorry ma’am,” he said sheepishly. “I don’t think I should have said that.”
She smiled and gently ruffled his hair. “Soldier, I think you’ve earned the right to say any fucking thing you wish.”
* * *
The men of Gilberto Salazar’s Legion had not been called on to do anything this day. Instead, he’d leaned on his crutches and watched proudly as the Spanish army marched off in all its glory to destroy the American invaders. He’d cheered as they headed up the hill in proud ranks with flags flying and drums and bugles sounding. But then the Americans began to shoot. First the cannon tore into their ranks and then torrents of rifle and machine gun fire further decimated them. The proud ranks became a mob, but still they bravely climbed the hill. His stomach contracted and he had to stop himself from shaking with fear at the sight. He thanked Jesus and the Virgin that he had not been called upon to attack this day.
But then the advance stopped. Puzzled, Salazar aimed his binoculars and saw soldiers falling in heaps before an almost invisible barrier. What the devil? The advance was faltering and he sensed that the retreat would soon begin. This phase of the battle was over and it would be a crushing Spanish defeat. As the attackers fell back, what remained of their discipline collapsed and the Spanish withdrawal became a mob of men seeking the comfort of their earlier positions. Even officers had succumbed to the infection and were running frantically.