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America at War: The Philippines, 1898-1913
 9780313011962, 9780275968212

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America at War

America at War The Philippines, 1898–1913

A. B. FEUER Forewords by Dominic J. Caraccilo and Michael G. Price

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data America at war : the Philippines, 1898–1913 / [edited by] A.B. Feuer ; forewords by Dominic J. Caraccilo and Michael G. Price. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–275–96821–9 (alk. paper) 1. Philippines—History, Military—19th century—Sources. 2. Philippines—History, Military—20th century—Sources. 3. Spanish-American War, 1898—Campaigns—Philippines—Sources. 4. Philippines—History—Philippine American War, 1899–1902—Personal narratives. 5. Philippines—History—1898–1946—Sources. I. Feuer, A. B., 1925– DS679.P6 2002 959.9'03—dc21 2001055161 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available. Copyright 䉷 2002 by A. B. Feuer All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique, without the express written consent of the publisher. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001055161 ISBN: 0–275–96821–9 First published in 2002 Praeger Publishers, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881 An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc. www.praeger.com Printed in the United States of America TM

The paper used in this book complies with the Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National Information Standards Organization (Z39.48–1984). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Copyright Acknowledgments The author and publisher are grateful to the following for granting permission to reprint from their materials: Bud Feuer, Combat Diary: Episodes from the History of the Twenty-second Regiment, 1866–1905 (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1991), an imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc., Westport, CT.

Contents Maps

vii

Foreword by Dominic J. Caraccilo

ix

Foreword by Michael G. Price

xiii

Acknowledgments

xvii

Introduction

xix

1. From Hong Kong to Mirs Bay: The Memoirs of John T. McCutcheon

1

2. Three Days to Manila

7

3. The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

12

4. Joseph Montgomery’s Story

21

5. After the Battle: Reports from Cavite

24

6. Spanish Reports: Call to Arms and Battle Accounts

28

7. The Siege of Manila: Reports from the Blockade

35

8. The Philippines—Islands of Mystery

45

9. The Night Battle of 31 July: John T. McCutcheon’s Account

48

10. The Utah Artillery at the Battle of Manila: Evaristo de Montalvo’s Story

54

11. The Astor Battery at the Battle of Manila

65

12. The Surrender of Manila: John T. McCutcheon’s Story

73

13. Letters from Manila

78

vi

Contents

14. Fanning the Fires of War: Charles Mabey’s Story

86

15. Letters from the Front

96

16. The Pasig River Campaign: Jacob Kreps’ Story

103

17. The Luzon Campaign: Road to Malolos

109

18. The Battle of Malolos: John Brewer’s Story

117

19. The U.S. Army’s Gunboat Navy

121

20. Malolos to Calumpit: The Bloodiest Campaign

129

21. Letter from Calumpit

140

22. The Road to San Fernando: Death in the Swamps

142

23. The Siege of Baler and the Adventures of Lyman P. Edwards

148

24. The Paran˜aque Campaign: Joseph Donovan’s Story

173

25. The Abra Valley Campaign: The Diary of Lewis E. Cozzens

177

26. The Capture of Emilio Aguinaldo

194

27. “Stand Gentlemen—He Served on Samar!”

201

28. Life and Death in Moroland

212

29. The Battle of Bud Bagsak

225

30. Poems from the American-Philippine War

237

31. Songs from the American-Philippine War

249

Bibliography

253

Index

257 Photo essay follows page 128

Maps 9

2.1

Philippine Islands

2.2

Commodore George Dewey’s Route from Hong Kong to Manila Bay

11

3.1

Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

14

7.1

The Pasig River from Manila to Laguna de Bay

37

9.1

American, Spanish, and Filipino Trenches South of Manila, July 30, 1898

50

The Nebraska Camp and the San Juan River Bridge, February 2, 1899

87

Blockhouses and Church Defending the Approaches to Caloocan

88

14.1 14.2 17.1

The Road to Malolos

111

19.1

U.S. Army Gunboat Areas of Operations

124

20.1

Malolos to Calumpit: The Deadly Miles

130

22.1

Theater of Operations, Central Luzon

145

23.1

The Odyssey of Lyman P. Edwards

150

25.1

Abra Province, Luzon

178

25.2

The Abra Valley Campaign, September 1900–March 1901

180

26.1

The Route of the Vicksburg to Palanan Bay, March 1901

196

27.1

Samar Island and the Route of the Marine March

202

28.1

Mindanao and the Islands of the Sulu Archipelago

213

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Maps

28.2

The Lake Lanao District of Mindanao

215

29.1

The Island of Jolo

226

29.2

Bamboo Grove Showing the Position of the 51st and 52nd Moro Scouts at the Final Assault on the Bagsak Cotta, June 15, 1913

230

Foreword The Spanish-American War acted as a bridge between America’s past and future. Gone was the Civil War mystique of battle and upon us was the dawning of the technological wonders of the twentieth century. The Spanish-American War, in spite of its tremendous implications for the United States, Spain, Cuba, the Philippines, and Guam is seldom mentioned in the popular media or brought to the attention of the public. Most may have heard the statement “Remember the Maine,” but few have an understanding that the sinking of the USS Maine in Havana Harbor instigated the war with Spain and the subsequent U.S. Navy attack on the Spanish squadron in the Philippines. Acclaimed historian and author of numerous exemplary works A.B. “Bud” Feuer has offered in America at War: The Philippines, 1898–1913 an engrossing personal account of this often overlooked foray for freedom. This book is a compilation of personal accounts conveying the American soldier and sailor’s battle to defeat the Spanish foe in the Philippines. In what has commonly carried the misnomer, “The Splendid Little War,” Feuer compiles a set of first-hand accounts to narrate America’s extension of the Spanish-American War. From the Philippine littoral region to ground actions on the Philippine Islands this book is quite possibly the most readable, detailed chronicle of its kind. Since the Spanish-American War occurred in the interval between two conflicts that resulted in great death and anguish to the United States, not many Americans have paid much attention to its existence. The Spanish-American War was relatively bloodless from the American perspective and therefore, by an odd measurement of standards, unimportant. However, Feuer’s research has identified letters, memoirs, and diaries that dispel the conventional thought that the ground battles in and around Manila “didn’t amount to much.”

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Foreword

Of note in America at War are the blockhouse battles. Feuer offers intriguing first-person accounts of the fighting which took place along the Pasig River on the north outskirts of Manila running to a few miles south of Malate and the various trench battles that took place near Taguig. These are some of the most thorough descriptions of America’s attempt to squash the insurgent uprisings that I have read. The stirring letters home and correspondent dispatches to various newspapers in the United States offer a provocative depiction of what it was like to be “sleeping in dog tents—and being used for target practice by the insurgents.” Having written a World War II chronicle of the Bataan Death March titled Surviving Bataan and Beyond: Colonel Irvin Alexander’s Odyssey as a Japanese POW (1999), Feuer’s America at War: The Philippines, 1898–1913 offers a stark reminder of the long history of turmoil the Philippine Islands have experienced. It is a country of tumultuous past and the Spanish-American War is a significant part of this past. Bud Feuer begins this expertly woven and meticulously compartmentalized roundtable-type discussion of experiences with a histrionic depiction of the U.S. Asiatic Squadron attack on Admiral Patricio Montojo’s Spanish squadron during the Battle of Manila. Starting in April 1898, Americans joined the battle near Canacao Bay with five cruisers and two gunboats as its squadrons “steamed deeper into the enemy’s lair.” As written in the letters and diaries of those participating in the Battle of Manila, then-Commodore George Dewey’s squadron struck quickly upon the Spanish squadron at bay, thus ending centuries of Spanish influence in the Far East and confirming the United States as a world naval power. The first sighting of a Spanish vessel was described in the diary of John McCutcheon, a journalist and freelance newspaper correspondent, who was aboard the U.S. revenue cutter McCulloch on April 30, 1898, “a few miles from Subic.” In the end, Dewey’s victory at Manila Bay was an unparalleled success at that time in history for it was the first time an entire fleet was destroyed without the loss of a ship or man from an attacking force. The majority of accounts offered by Feuer are presented in a well-balanced manner placing heavy emphasis on John McCutcheon’s diary inserts, letters, and notes from which one can draw a check of sorts on the reliability of other accounts. McCutcheon’s ubiquitous presence throughout this book is important for he has a seemingly keen eye for battle and an articulate manner for relating what he saw. Feuer’s careful placement of McCutcheon’s contributions gives credence to his abilities as a nonfiction historian. From an historic perspective readers will be engrossed with not only the exactness of this book’s narration of the American and its Spanish foe’s naval and ground exploits, but also that of Aguinaldo’s insurgents. Little has been written about how the insurgents turned on the U.S. forces once the Spanish were defeated. America at War fills that void. When Bud Feuer asked me to read his manuscript and provide a foreword I was deeply honored, for unbeknownst to him his work in providing historical

Foreword

xi

military narratives to the history of this country’s great warriors is immensely popular among the ranks of modern-day soldiers and this book is no exception. Lieutenant Colonel Dominic J. Caraccilo Fort Benning, Georgia

Foreword If asked about colonialism, most Americans will associate it with the British and French. The U.S. government never admitted to being a colonial power, and so the lands it seized were termed possessions. Filipino patriots and revolutionaries who fought for independence were disparaged as insurrectos and bandits instead of being compared with our own Washington and Jefferson, and their revolutionary struggle was verbally delegitimatized as an insurrection. As shown in these many passages skillfully selected, assembled, and annotated by Bud Feuer, the individual American soldiers who fought in the Philippine-American War varied widely in their consciousness, from those who somehow believed they were on the side of liberty, to others who realized the truth was just the opposite. The greatest value of these first-hand writings pertaining to the war in the Philippines from 1898 to 1913 is that they provide an enormous amount of detail that is missing from most historical accounts, and also that they allow us insight into the consciousness and personal thoughts of the participants. They are also arranged in such a way that the various diary entries, letters, and memoirs—mostly written near the moment of action by ordinary soldiers—reconstruct the threads of the story of the Spanish-American War in the Philippines and the subsequent Philippine-American War, from the perspective of those directly involved. But not from all sides. Even though there are inclusions pertaining to the Spanish side of the conflict with the United States, it was impossible for Bud Feuer to attempt to piece together enough Filipino versions to produce a balanced story, not because he was adverse to their side, but because of the dearth of available information and materials, a scarcity that should be explained. The Filipino fighters were, to say the least, poorly equipped and had little or no access to basic writing materials. They were mostly unpaid and so could not

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Foreword

purchase paper for writing, and were excluded from Manila, and later other urban centers where writing supplies could be bought. Their meager supplies of paper were reserved for official purposes, and the only Filipino diary of the war I know of was semi-official, that of Simeon A. Villa, medical officer of President Emilio Aguinaldo. Aguinaldo, Villa, and the diary were captured at Palanan in northeastern Luzon in March 1901, and the diary was published in the Philippines in 1973 in one of the five volumes of “insurrection,” records originally compiled by John R. M. Taylor that had been suppressed for decades. The Filipino fighters were a defeated army, often forced to retreat, shifting their base of operations, exposed to the elements; diaries would have been an encumbrance. Papers would be destroyed in crossing rivers, and by rain, mud, humidity, fires, warm temperatures, sun, insects, fungi, and the general conditions in wartime. Writings would also have to be prevented from falling into the hands of the enemy, for obvious reasons, and even until long after the cessation of actual fighting, any partisan materials had to be destroyed or remain safely hidden, at the risk of possible imprisonment, exile, or execution. Another reason for the lack of diaries is that so many of the Filipino fighters were killed. The majority of the most dedicated and courageous soldiers on the front lines perished around Manila and in central Luzon from the vastly superior firepower of the Americans, especially from their naval and gunboat bombardments; artillery shells loaded with deadly shrapnel; Hotchkiss guns that were revolvingbarrel machine guns; and Gatling guns that produced hails of bullets. A generation of the ablest Filipinos was decimated, first by the Spanish and then especially by the Americans between 1896 and 1906; in Luzon alone it is estimated that 1 million Filipinos died while resisting the invading Americans or merely as innocent victims. We can never know just how much was lost in both potential and actual writings, and how many diaries and letters were never brought to light. The United States had declared war against Spain for supposed humanitarian purposes, not to acquire colonial territories. Deceived by this claim, and other explicit and implicit statements by representatives of the U.S. government, including Admiral Dewey and Consuls Pratt and Wildman, and encouraged by the Americans after Dewey’s naval victory in Manila Bay on May 1, 1898, Aguinaldo and the Filipino forces, at great cost to themselves, drove the Spanish from the Philippines, except for a few enclaves and the city of Manila. The Spanish then surrendered Manila in August 1898 by secret arrangement—after a staged battle—to the Americans, who excluded the Filipino fighters from the city. Four months later, in December 1898, the United States agreed to purchase the Philippines from a Spain that no longer controlled her, as if it were legal to buy a nation and her people against their will. The agreed-upon price of $20 million amounted to about $2 per person. After numerous troop ships arrived with sufficient reinforcements, the United States commenced its war against the Filipinos on February 4, 1899, manufacturing a pretext to pretend the initial attack had come from the other side. The

Foreword

xv

claimed pretext for launching the American offensive was that a Filipino had passed near an American sentry, Private Willie Grayson, at San Juan Bridge, had not obeyed the order to halt, and so was gunned down. Now over a hundred years later it is possible to state unequivocally that the outbreak of fighting was actually a carefully planned aggression. The Filipinos were caught unprepared, with their commanding officers away from their lines, and no reinforcements for their front lines were in place. In the week preceding the February 4 outbreak, American artillery was moved up to vantage points overlooking the Filipino lines, on the excuse that these units needed higher ground to avoid mosquitoes. Filipino employees inside the city of Manila were discharged. The American commander, General Otis, imposed a strict press censorship that included control of cables going overseas. The attack was also timed to influence a crucial vote in the U.S. Senate about the treaty with Spain over the Philippines, scheduled for February 6. With censorship in place, Otis, President McKinley, and the imperialist faction were able to falsely claim that the Filipinos had been the aggressors, and in response the U.S. Senate voted to annex the Philippines by the margin of only a single vote. Even after hostilities had commenced, with about 3,000 Filipinos killed in the first day, Aguinaldo still asked Otis to negotiate a ceasefire, to which Otis cynically and revealingly replied that since the fighting had begun, it must go on to the bitter end. Wars are not started by privates. As for the shooting near San Juan Bridge by Private Grayson that was supposed to have begun the war, it was the daily practice of Filipino farmers and workmen to return home using that bridge, which was the link between Santa Mesa, a district of Manila, and the town of San Juan. All that was necessary to create the pretext for an attack was to give orders to the sentries not to allow anyone to pass. The Filipino who was shot and killed was apparently an unarmed civilian; he may have been wearing a bolo strapped around his waist (a small machete that is routinely worn by farmers and workers) as is customary even to the present time in rural areas. We have accounts of the incident from interviews with Private Grayson, another sentry with him, and their officers, published in U.S. Army reports, which describe the circumstances. In fact, three probably unarmed Filipino civilians were gunned down in quick succession at the bridge over the San Juan River that evening. It was no accident that this location was chosen as the point where the Americans launched the brunt of their initial offensive, since the waterworks for Manila were in San Juan, by far the most crucial piece of territory then controlled by the Filipinos. A decade before the start of the Philippine-American War, the acclaimed Filipino writer, genius, and martyr Dr. Jose´ Rizal had predicted that the Philippines might fall into the sphere of influence of the United States. He also correctly predicted that the Filipinos would fight a long and bloody war against any imperialist power that attempted to succeed the Spanish tyranny. Although the American colonial regime attempted to make use of Rizal, who had been shot after a mock trial by the Spaniards in 1896, saying he would have approved

xvi

Foreword

of their rule, they had to twist his words in translation for that purpose, and it was always flatly contradicted by all the members of Rizal’s family, including his brother Paciano who became an officer in the struggle against the Americans, and his mother Teodora who steadfastly refused the financial assistance the regime repeatedly offered. The one-sided war by the Americans against the Filipinos, so vividly described in this volume, thanks to the efforts of Bud Feuer, will, in my opinion, be best understood by American readers if they try to constantly empathize with the aspirations of Aguinaldo, Rizal, and the millions of ordinary Filipinos who were on the other side. This is the third volume of Philippine-related diaries produced by Bud Feuer, and I feel he has performed a valuable service by rescuing these unique historical documents from obscurity and making them available in such a convenient and readable form. Michael G. Price

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Dominic J. Caraccilo and Michael G. Price for their valuable insights and contributions to this book. Dominic Caraccilo is a 1984 graduate of the United States Military Academy and served in the Persian Gulf War. He has authored several books and writes for a number of military magazines. Mike Price lived in the Philippine Islands from 1966 to 1976 teaching and doing research. He received a Master’s degree from the University of the Philippines, and then went on to further studies at the University of Michigan. He is an authority on Filipiniana, especially photography, during the years of the American regime in the Philippines, 1898 to 1946. In addition, I am indebted to John T. McCutcheon, Jr., for permission to use and edit the writings of his father, John T. McCutcheon; and to Joe Edwards for permission to edit the memoirs of his grandfather, Lyman P. Edwards. I would also like to thank Gertrudis de Montalvo Willett for permission to edit Evaristo de Montalvo’s diary of his service with the Utah Artillery at the Battle of Manila.

Introduction Emilio Aguinaldo was born in Old Cavite, Luzon, on March 22, 1869, and was educated at the College of San Juan de Letran in Manila. In 1895 he became a leader in the Katipunan, a revolutionary society that sought complete independence from Spain. In 1896 the Filipinos revolted against the heavy taxes imposed upon them by the Spanish government. People unable to pay their taxes were forced to toil at hard labor and work out payments at the rate of ten cents a day. In September Aguinaldo, leading a ragtag band of soldiers, defeated Spanish General Aguirre’s regiment at the Battle of Imus. After his victory, Aguinaldo issued a manifesto urging the Filipino people to rally to the cause of the revolution. Then, two months later, he handed the Spanish another setback at Cavite. This victory incited the people in other provinces of Luzon to also take up arms against their oppressors. The Spanish, however, were determined to put down the revolt and defeated Aguinaldo’s followers in a series of battles. In June 1897 Aguinaldo was forced to flee Cavite, and with a band of loyal Filipinos, he relocated in the mountains near Bulacan. In order to quell the rebellion the Spanish authorities reached an agreement with the revolutionaries whereby Spain would pay $800,000 to Aguinaldo in exchange for his voluntary exile to Hong Kong. The rebels would lay down their arms, and a general amnesty would be granted to Aguinaldo’s men. The Spanish government also promised to institute social reforms in the islands. In early 1898 uprisings again began to take place on Luzon as the Spaniards continued their abusive treatment of the Filipinos. After the sinking of the USS Maine in the harbor at Havana, Cuba, in February 1898, tensions between the United States and Spain quickly reached the boiling point. On April 22, E. Spencer Pratt, the U.S. Consul General at Sin-

xx

Introduction

gapore, arranged a meeting with Emilio Aguinaldo. Pratt gave the Filipino leader a verbal promise that in the case of a war with Spain, he would guarantee independence to the Philippine Islands if Aguinaldo would return to the Philippines and incite the people against the Spanish. Three days later America declared war on Spain. On May 19, almost three weeks after Commodore George Dewey’s victory over the Spanish fleet at Manila Bay, Aguinaldo and thirteen of his lieutenants arrived at Cavite and conferred with Dewey. That same day Aguinaldo issued a proclamation urging his countrymen to join the war against Spain to win freedom for their country. Near the end of June Aguinaldo declared a provisional government and issued a declaration of independence. However, with the arrival of the first American troops, Aguinaldo was informed that the United States recognized his military leadership but not his civil authority. The U.S. State Department also repudiated Pratt’s promise of Philippine independence, stating that Pratt did not have the authority to “make pledges or discuss policy.” This rejection was a slap in the face to Aguinaldo. And eight months later it would result in the United States becoming embroiled in a bloody struggle in the Philippine Islands. The story of America’s war in the Philippines from 1898 to 1913 is told in the memoirs, diaries, and letters of the men—men who not only fought a determined enemy, but also the weather, jungle, and disease. Their writings have put a human face on the American soldier, sailor, and marine who served in the Philippine Islands in the early part of the twentieth century.

1

From Hong Kong to Mirs Bay: The Memoirs of John T. McCutcheon In January 1898 two freelance newspaper correspondents, John T. McCutcheon and Edwin Harden, went aboard the U.S. Treasury Department’s newest thousand-ton revenue cutter, the McCulloch, for an intended trip around the world. John McCutcheon narrated the journey that would take him from Hampton Roads, Virginia, to the Philippine Islands and a war that would change the course of American history. “The first leg of our cruise was to be the Madeira Islands. We carried ninety tons of coal on the deck. One could not move forward or aft without climbing over the sacks. The ship was narrow and built for speed. The McCulloch had a new type of construction that was so faulted that she nearly capsized the first day. Her center of gravity appeared to be too high. With all that coal on board, she was hopelessly top-heavy. In order to keep our minds off the possibility of the McCulloch turning-turtle and going down with all hands, several of us passengers formed the Coal Bag Club. We would perch on top of the coal bags and take turns reading stories aloud to each other. “When we reached Malta on February 15, we learned of the sinking of the USS Maine. Our captain, Daniel B. Hodgsdon, immediately decided that we had better hurry on with our journey in case war was declared between the United States and Spain. “Upon arriving at Singapore, the American consul, E. Spencer Pratt, notified Hodgsdon that the McCulloch had been transferred from the Treasury to the Navy Department. He was also handed orders to proceed at once to Hong Kong and report to Commodore George Dewey. Hodgsdon was cautioned to avoid Spanish ports and Spanish ships. “We anchored in Hong Kong Harbor on Sunday April 17, and sighted Dewey’s squadron—dressed in white paint with awnings spread. It seemed prob-

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America at War

able that as soon as war was declared, the warships would steam to Manila and engage the Spanish fleet. “With the help of the American consul general, Ed Harden made arrangements to be a correspondent for the New York World. I cabled the Chicago Record, informed them that I was in Hong Kong, and was told to send all the stuff I could. Joseph Stickney of the New York Herald was also on hand. That made three of us to report the war. “I quickly learned that this is a bad time of year for conducting any kind of military operations in the South China Sea, as the southwest monsoons are upon us. A fearful gale was blowing the night before last and all day yesterday, making ship movements in the harbor dangerous, and small boat traffic impossible. “The bubonic plague is raging here and in Canton. In Hong Kong there are more than twenty deaths a day. A ship came into port recently from Bangkok with cholera on board. Thirty people had died on the vessel. When we first arrived at Hong Kong, I noticed the body of a small child floating in the water. It evidently had been dead for some time, but no attempt was made by passing sampans to pick it up. “There is much hurried activity aboard Commodore Dewey’s fleet. Early Tuesday (April 19), the task of painting the ships with battle colors began. The shade was a drab gray—contrasting slightly from the color of the sea. In less than four hours, the USS Boston had a coat of paint brushed on every spar, mast and funnel—as well as the entire hull itself. A few hours later, the newly designated USS McCulloch had also received her coat of war paint. Before nightfall the U.S. Navy’s men-of-war—Olympia, Raleigh, Concord and Petrel— had been transformed. “The USS Baltimore was due to arrive Wednesday (April 20) with a shipment of ammunition. But, due to rough seas, she did not reach Hong Kong until Friday morning. The work of distributing the cargo of explosives began immediately. “When the squadron leaves Hong Kong, it will proceed up the China coast to a protected bay, and practice necessary naval tactics for a day or two before sailing to the Philippines. In case of an attack on Manila, it is understood that the Olympia, Baltimore, Boston and Raleigh will be the front line. The Concord and Petrel will support from the rear. The McCulloch is too lightly armed to be a fighting warship. Her armament only consists of four six-pounders and a few rapid-fire Hotchkiss guns. The McCulloch is also not armored. She will probably be used to hunt mines and as a dispatch boat. “It was believed that the American fleet was superior in strength, but not in numbers. The Spaniards had four large warships, and many small gunboats. The Spanish were reported to be removing all valuables and church treasures from Manila—more in anticipation of the fury of the Filipinos than of any pillage by the Americans. It was also learned that Spanish and other foreign residents were

From Hong Kong to Mirs Bay

3

leaving the islands in large numbers, and only Spain’s army and naval forces would be left to confront Commodore Dewey’s squadron. “Several naval officers who I talked to were of the opinion that the Spaniards would keep their warships close in the harbor behind mine fields, while their coast artillery batteries would challenge the Americans. If this was the case, a short decisive action would be impossible—and it might become necessary to force an entrance to the harbor despite the mines. “It was important that the Spanish fleet be destroyed quickly, since our ships would be at the mercy of typhoons. Supplies and coal could also become a problem in case of a long siege. For Harden, Stickney and myself, it seemed like we would be sailing into the jaws of a dragon. Historically, in naval battles, at least a quarter of the participants were killed. Fearing the worst, we wrote farewell letters home, and packed everything we did not absolutely need in camphorwood boxes and sent them ashore. “The American naval force was ready to steam to Manila at a moment’s notice. In his instructions to Captain Hodgsdon, Dewey stated that the squadron will head across the China Sea in open order, keeping a distance of twelve hundred yards between ships. In case of bad weather, the vessels will form a more compact formation. “On Sunday April 24, while the fleet was still lying at anchor off Hong Kong, we learned that a state of war existed between the United States and Spain. Joseph Chamberlin, British secretary for the colonies, notified Commodore Dewey that all English ports would be compelled to observe strict neutrality. Dewey was given until four o’clock Monday afternoon to leave port. I was permitted to observe the squadron sailings from the decks of the Olympia. “At two o’clock Sunday afternoon, the Boston, Concord, McCulloch and Petrel hurriedly hoisted anchor and left the harbor. Men on watch were instructed to be extra alert, and orders were issued that no lights were to be shown. At dark, our ships could barely be seen against the distant hills. Only somber black spars occasionally showed themselves against the silhouette of moving clouds. “Shortly before ten o’clock Monday morning, the Olympia, followed by the Baltimore and Raleigh, slowly moved up Hong Kong Harbor. The bands on all three ships began playing Hail Columbia as we made a grand exit of the bay. “Soldiers, packing the rails of a British troopship, cheered and waved their hats as we passed. Our sailors answered vigorously. Small steam launches, crowded with Americans, puffed alongside the Olympia. The passengers waved handkerchiefs and shouted encouragement until we reached the open sea. The Raleigh had broken an air pump the day before, and the flotilla’s speed had to be reduced. “About 3 P.M., we dropped anchor in Mirs Bay, a small inlet thirty-five miles north of Hong Kong. The other ships of the squadron were waiting for us— including two cargo steamers, the Nanshan and Zafiro. Dewey had purchased these vessels before we left Hong Kong. “Mirs Bay is virtually an uninhabited cove. There is a small Chinese village

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America at War

back in the hills, but except for this community, there is little evidence of life along the shore. Every now and then, a few curious sampans approach our anchorage, and occasionally the faint outline of a junk’s sails can be seen out at sea. From the standpoint of seclusion, however, there could hardly be a more desirable rendezvous spot. “At six o’clock, a small smudge of smoke was sighted in the distance. About an hour later, a navy dispatch boat pulled up alongside the Olympia and delivered a coded message to the commodore. For a few minutes, a tense but quiet pause spread throughout the ship. Then suddenly, without warning, colored lights began flashing rapidly from the foremast, signaling all ship commanding officers to report aboard the Olympia. “A conference was held in the wardroom, where Commodore Dewey read his orders from the Navy Department, ‘You are to proceed to the Philippine Islands and capture or destroy the Spanish fleet!’ “The meeting was over about 10 P.M., and aboard every ship there was a burst of frantic activity. From the Olympia, a continuous stream of flashing lights detailed more instructions to the squadron. “The sounds of the fleet preparing for war and the sharp shouts of officers bellowing orders spread crisply across the bay. Amid the frenzied excitement, all useless articles, such as woodwork and doors were thrown overboard. Masts were bound with anchor chains. The rigging was snaked with zigzag rope to keep the heavy wire stays from falling on deck. Shot stoppers were fabricated to plug shell holes in the hull. Lifeboats were wrapped with canvas to protect them against flying splinters. The aft lifeboats were lowered halfway in case of emergency. Every piece of machinery was carefully examined and tested. Pumps were overhauled, and ammunition was placed in readiness. “I rejoined Harden aboard the McCulloch and, as our crew was comparatively small, we were assigned to work with the gun and ammunition squads. A sick bay and battle dressing station were set up on the berth deck, and four men were detailed to assist the surgeon. A stretcher was built, and life preservers and buoyant cushions were scattered about. The decks were cleared for action!” While the American squadron was anchored at Hong Kong, much of Commodore George Dewey’s time was spent in consultation with his various ship captains. All possibilities and eventualities of conflict with the enemy were discussed. Dewey called upon his officers to express their opinions freely, and all ideas were given careful consideration. But these were not the only problems that troubled the commodore. Spanish agents in Hong Kong continually spread rumors concerning the mining of channels surrounding the island of Corregidor and parts of Manila Bay. Because of all the disinformation he was receiving, Dewey set up his own spy network. He assigned his aide, Ensign F. B. Upham to pose as a civilian interested in the sea and ships. Upham would interview crews attached to vessels that had arrived from Manila. Additional information was obtained from an American businessman living

From Hong Kong to Mirs Bay

5

in Hong Kong, who made frequent trips to the Philippines and reported his observations to the commodore. Surprisingly, U.S. Navy Intelligence was so lacking that Dewey was forced to buy charts of the Philippine Islands at a Hong Kong store. One of George Dewey’s major dilemmas was the Spanish coastal batteries. The island of Corregidor divided the entrance of Manila Bay into two channels. The north passage—between Corregidor and the Bataan peninsula—was called Boca Chica, and was only two miles wide. The south channel, Boca Grande, was five miles in width. Strong fortifications, mounting heavy Krupp guns, had been constructed on the island and mainland. Both channels had been mined by the Spaniards. The narrow passage was the shallower of the two and potentially more dangerous. Dewey believed that mining the deeper channel would be much more difficult, and he doubted that it could be accomplished successfully. But one problem was foremost in Dewey’s thoughts—the knowledge that no reinforcements or assistance of any kind would be arriving from the United States to support his squadron. And, in the event he lost the battle or any of his ships were damaged, there was no safe harbor available. Neutrality laws were against the Americans in all Asian ports, and home base was eight thousand miles away. By heading to Manila Commodore Dewey was burning all his bridges behind him. He had to be victorious. A failure of the mission could possibly result in the annihilation of his squadron. A reporter for the New York Journal, who witnessed the American ships leave the China coast, wrote: “When Dewey’s squadron sailed out from Mirs Bay, it reminded me of thoroughbred race horses, trained to the minute by an expert who not only knew his animals, but also his competition and the conditions of the race.” Meanwhile, an editorial in the Manila Times attempted to calm the fears of the city’s Spanish residents with the following remarks: “Some of our readers commented with alarm upon the arrival at Hong Kong of the North American Pacific Squadron. They seem to see this as a menace to the Philippine Islands. And, in this regard, we feel obligated to say a few words. “First, remain tranquil. We will not allow ourselves to be needlessly alarmed by those persons, who like an ostrich, hide their heads under their wings, and rest in fancied security. We will view the question reduced to its just proportions. “The rendezvous of these American warships—which they have dignified by designating them a squadron—is not a serious menace to Spanish rule in the Philippines. A London cable states that the men-of-war assembled at Hong Kong are the ‘ironclads’ Olympia, Raleigh, Boston, Concord and Petrel. “Not one of these ships is an ‘ironclad.’ The Olympia is a fine cruiser with a protective deck, but no armor or protection for its battery. Her displacement is 5,800 tons, and she has a supposed speed of twenty-one knots. But her real speed is much less, as she has not been docked for some time.

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America at War

“The Boston and Raleigh are second-class cruisers, also with protective decks—undoubtedly very thin. They both have a displacement of about 3,200 tons, and their armament is nothing extraordinary for vessels of this type. “The Concord and Petrel are protected gunboats of 1,700 and 890 tons, respectively, and with very moderate speed—probably not more than fourteen knots. “From this data, it is obvious that this so-called squadron will not cause a single tremor to Spanish power in the Philippines. And do not for a moment forget, we have our own cruisers of more than 3,000 tons, others of more than 1,000 tons, and a number of gunboats. We also have land batteries which will be very effective against the American ships. We do not believe, however, that the Americans will attempt such a risky venture. Nevertheless, we cannot consider that the Yankees are merely making a straw fire. If not, then what was their objective in assembling a naval squadron at Hong Kong? “As we have so often said, the Americans are merely testing the strength and spirit of the Spanish government. The Americans do not care for war, but expect to gain all the riches that it will give them. Looking at it in this light, a visit of the American fleet to the Philippines is not sufficient to raise our fear, or produce the moral effect intended by the Washington government. The situation is beginning to look like movements on a chess board, whereby Washington is trying to force the hand of Spain. To gain the advantage, without loss to himself, is the whole object of President McKinley’s play.”

2

Three Days to Manila Shortly before the American fleet sailed from Mirs Bay, Commodore Dewey notified the journalists that no stories were to be sent to their newspapers until further notice. Joseph Stickney was permitted to sail on the Olympia and report the action from the decks of the flagship. John McCutcheon stayed aboard the McCulloch and wrote every day describing the three-day voyage to the Philippines, the sea battle at Manila Bay, and its aftermath. The stories were sent to the Chicago Record on May 7, and were published in diary format a few days later. April 27, 1898 This was a bleak, unfriendly kind of day. A heavy mist settled over the water, and there was a suggestion of fall in the air. Our crew was anxious to get underway, and the officers were chafing under the tedious waiting. Every passing day gives the Spanish more time to prepare for our attack on Manila. No one knows this better than the commodore, and consequently this awareness adds to the general uneasiness aboard the fleet. About 11 A.M., a tugboat entered the bay and steamed alongside the Olympia. On deck was Oscar F. Williams, the American consul to the Philippines, who had just arrived from Manila. Williams hurriedly climbed aboard the flagship, and Dewey immediately signaled his squadron to prepare to get underway at two o’clock. A feverish surge of activity swept the fleet, and volumes of black smoke began pouring from ship funnels. Lieutenant Elliot and I made a quick trip over to the Nanshan and Zafiro. There were hasty introductions, and much strained joking on how the squadron would soon be bursting into Manila Bay. Many a hope was expressed that we would be drinking to one another’s health in Manila within a few days. We returned to the McCulloch about one-thirty, and at 2 P.M. sharp the Olympia hoisted

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America at War

anchor. The flagship’s marine detachment assembled on the quarterdeck, and the band struck up the inspiring march from “El Capitan.” Only a few curious junks were on hand to see us off. And, with radio silence, we knew that from this moment on, we would be cut off from the rest of the world. The McCulloch’s crew was lined up on deck, and Captain Hodgsdon read aloud the Spanish declaration of war as issued by the authorities at Manila. It was an inflammatory cry to the people of the Philippines to unite them against the sacrilegious vandals who were coming to loot their churches and insult their women. At the conclusion of the statement—which also contained a number of infuriating remarks about American sailors, as well as Uncle Sam—the crew broke into three rousing cheers for the Stars and Stripes. The Raleigh was steaming on the starboard quarter of the Olympia, while the McCulloch took her assigned position about a hundred yards abeam of the Raleigh’s stern. The Baltimore moved up to the port beam of the Raleigh, and the Petrel took her place on the Baltimore’s port quarter. A white flag with red diagonal crossbars—the commodore’s pennant—fluttered from the Olympia’s foremast. And, from her mainmast, the American flag waved with authority. The sky was overcast like the color of dull lead. There was a gentle swell, and a soft breeze blowing in from the China Sea. A purple hue covered the headlands that form the northern side of Mirs Bay. The squadron’s formation was gradually changing. The McCulloch moved to a position on the starboard beam of the Olympia. Two lines were formed. Steaming in the first column were the Olympia, Baltimore, Raleigh, Petrel, Concord and Boston, in that order. The McCulloch headed the second column that was comprised of the Nanshan and Zafiro. At dark, the fleet was steaming southeast at eight knots. The ships were marked by only a few lights—even the outlines of their hulls had dissolved into the blackness. The string of lights, stretching for a mile through the night, was ghostlike, harmless in appearance, but deadly in reality. The Olympia flashed her orders to the squadron—regulating speed and other matters. The red and white signal lights winked like fireflies as they sent their messages through the pitch-black darkness. Every now and then, the flagship fired a red rocket high in the sky. The bright light would float off to the stern for a moment, then vanish—snuffed out like a candle. April 28, 1898 Shortly after 5 A.M., a strange ship was sighted off the McCulloch’s starboard bow. We rushed to intercept the stranger, but it proved to be an English merchant vessel bound for the Philippines. The squadron held the same formation as it continued to plow through rough seas. The low clouds were very dark and threatening. The sky began to clear about nine o’clock. Aboard the McCulloch, gun watches were changed, and three-inch ammunition was shifted forward. Some of the men—myself included—received instructions in the use of sabres and pistols. A signal drill was held in the evening, and at 10 P.M. the ships were lashed by a fearful rainstorm. There is a great deal of speculation about the outcome of our attack on Manila. A few officers believe that the American fleet will promptly silence the Spanish batteries, and that the conquest of the city will be swift. But, behind this show of confidence, there is a nagging doubt. The fact that the enemy naval vessels outnumber us—and the land force is formidable make an easy victory improbable.

2.1

Philippine Islands

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America at War

April 29, 1898 A heavy sea was rolling this afternoon, and a great deal of lightning could be seen to the south. The Nanshan and Zafiro were low in the water. Both ships were tossing and pitching. The McCulloch was also staggering and having trouble making headway. During the evening, the Olympia’s searchlights crossed and recrossed the sky, sweeping the horizon, and searching for any vessels that might try to sneak up on the squadron. It was one of the darkest nights in my memory. The position of each ship was marked only by a couple of masked lights on a mast. The small lights flickered like stars in the sky, for the ships themselves were not visible. Every porthole had been tightly closed. April 30, 1898 At 3:30 A.M., Cape Bolinao was sighted. At daylight, the island looked very green and beautiful in the morning sun. It reminded me of the coast of Cuba, approaching Havana from the north. There were faint lines of hills and mountains in the distance, and small patches of dark vegetation along the shore. The Boston and Concord were sent six miles ahead as scouts. While aboard the McCulloch, the crew busily cleared the decks for action. Ladders and fixed railings that were not absolutely necessary were taken down and stowed away. All sails were removed from the sail loft and banked on the forecastle as breastworks to protect the men stationed in exposed positions. Splinter nets were spread and firehoses run between decks—ready to drown any fires caused by bursting shells. Ammunition hoists were checked, and magazines opened. Every strip of bunting except signal flags were packed up. There was no visible excitement among the sailors, only a business-like calm that portended something imminent was about to happen. The Baltimore was soon ordered to join the Boston and Concord. They had instructions to enter Subic Bay, thirty miles north of Manila. Before leaving Mirs Bay, Commodore Dewey had received reports that Spanish Admiral Patricio Montojo y Pasaron had ordered some of his warships to Subic Bay. The inlet was an ideal defensive position. The entrance was two miles wide, and in the middle of the bay was Grande Island that commanded both sides of the passage. About 4 P.M., our squadron was a few miles from Subic, when the sails of a small schooner, flying the flag of Spain, was sighted. It reached the entrance to Subic Bay just as the Boston and Concord were coming out. The Olympia, Raleigh and Petrel rushed to cut the schooner off, and quickly surrounded the vessel. The McCulloch was signaled to assign an officer to board the Spaniard. A dinghy, with Lieutenant Joynes and an interpreter, was sent over to the schooner. During questioning, the Spanish captain stated that he had not sailed from Manila, and did not know the location of any warships. At five o’clock, the Concord, Boston and Baltimore rejoined the squadron, and all ship captains were ordered to report aboard the Olympia. Captain Hodgsdon returned to the McCulloch an hour later. The serious look on his face showed that the commodore had decided on a definite plan of action. Preparations for getting underway were immediately ordered. Battle ports were put up. The only light visible was a tiny stern signal, enclosed in a box, so that its light could only be seen by the ship directly behind. Shortly before sunset, a remarkable cloud formation was observed on the western horizon. It represented, without imagination, the turret and gun of a naval vessel. Coming at a time like this, the superstitious sailors believed it to be either a premonition of victory or defeat.

Three Days to Manila 2.2

11

Commodore George Dewey’s Route from Hong Kong to Manila Bay

As the sky darkened, shadowy groups of men could be seen moving silently about the deck and bridge. There was almost no sound. This was a perfect night for running past the forts at Corregidor. There were heavy gray clouds in the sky which effectively hid a half moon. It was only when lightning flashed that the dark silhouettes of our ships could be seen. It would take two or three hours for our squadron to arrive at Corregidor. All men not on watch were told to get some rest. Mattresses were scattered about the decks, and loaded revolvers and cutlasses were placed within easy reach. A few minutes after 10 P.M., the ship’s crews were sent to their battle stations by word of mouth. Every gun was manned. Rifles were distributed, and ammunition handlers received their assignments. There was nothing we could do now but wait!

3

The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898 It was Commodore Dewey’s intention to pass the Corregidor Island forts before midnight without being discovered. But his worst fears were soon realized as John McCutcheon remembered: “About 11:30 P.M., the entrance to Manila Bay became visible. Two dark headlands—one on either side of the entrance— loomed out of the darkness. And, in the emptiness between, I could see the awesome fortress of Corregidor. The largest Spanish guns were rumored to be located here, and mines were said to be planted around the island. “The squadron steamed ahead silently, only the stern light of the ship to the front breaking the darkness. Behind the McCulloch, the blackness of night hid the Nanshan and Zafiro from view. Suddenly a small flash of light flickered in the distance. We raced toward the strange glow, but it only proved to be Saint Elmo’s fire dancing and darting around a buoy. “A few minutes later, the squadron turned into the Boca Grande Channel and approached Corregidor abeam to port. The enemy guns were silent, but the tension aboard the ships was intense. A shadowy, sleeping Corregidor, and the hills of the mainland, were watched with straining eyes. “Then, without warning, a bright flame belched from the McCulloch’s stack. Soot from the soft coal she was burning had ignited. The flames shot up like fire from a rolling-mill chimney. A faint light immediately appeared on Corregidor, followed by the flash of a rocket fired from the island, then darkness and silence. Nervous anxiety gripped the squadron. Time seemed to stand still. But we were not out of danger yet. A moment later, another spark of flame shot from the stack. There was grinding of teeth on the McCulloch. She was a perfect target, but the Spaniards took no action. We were directly between Corregidor and the shoreline of Luzon. The Boston was two hundred yards ahead of us. The other men-of-war had already entered Manila Bay.

The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

13

“The strained pressure continued to build as our squadron steamed deeper into the enemy’s lair. On the McCulloch’s bridge, the hands of the ship’s clock touched midnight. It was now the first day of May. A flash of flame was suddenly spotted on the shore, followed by a white puff of smoke and the unforgettable scream of an artillery shell zooming overhead. It was fired at the McCulloch, but splashed well ahead of her. An order immediately came down from the bridge to load the aft starboard six-pounder. There was a short pause as the gun crew waited for instructions to commence firing, but the order never came. In its place, a sound like crashing thunder shook the air as the Boston launched an 8-inch salvo at the enemy position. “The Spanish battery quickly answered, sending another shell that landed a short distance in front of the bow. Irritated that the commodore did not have confidence in our gunners, Captain Hodgsdon sent a salvo of six-pounders racing toward the vague cloud of smoke rising from the dark hills off the starboard quarter. “During this exchange of fire, there was not one sound from Corregidor. We were surprised that shells had not been coming at us from both sides of the passage. “As soon as the McCulloch steamed into Manila Bay, she was directed to proceed at four knots toward the Cavite naval station—seventeen miles distant at the head of the bay. Commodore Dewey would attack at daylight.” Each ship in the American squadron was in a state of readiness. Every gun was loaded, and ammunition hoists were filled with shells. Officers on watch continually moved about, inspecting battle stations over and over again. Conversations were conducted in whispers so as not to disturb the men who were sleeping. In the Olympia’s publication, The “Bounding Billow,” Apprentice First Class Louis S. Young related his story of the Battle of Manila Bay. “About 3:20 A.M., word was passed to ‘lay by your guns and take it easy.’ The men laid by their guns, but taking it easy was out of the question. “The decks had been sprinkled with sand. It would get into the eyes, ears and nose, and scratch the skin. Occasionally, in the darkness, a sailor would stumble over the body of a sleeping man—then step over him leisurely as if on parade. There was no ‘I’m sorry’ or even an ‘excuse me.’ “At 12:17 A.M., an enemy artillery battery opened fire. A shell zoomed between the Olympia and Baltimore. The McCulloch sighted the gun’s muzzle flash and responded vigorously. After a short exchange of salvos, Commodore Dewey signaled Captain Hodgsdon, ‘Are you alright?’ Hodgsdon answered, ‘We are O.K.!’ The McCulloch was then ordered to remain with the transports instead of trying to win the war all by herself. “Coffee was served at 4 A.M. The long, hushed hours of silence were quickly broken with the clinking of cups and laughter occasioned by men bumping into each other in the dark. The Olympia’s crew was as happy as sailors on an excursion voyage. Jokes and so-called witty stories made the rounds. While,

14 3.1

America at War Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

every now and then, a forlorn nightingull would break out singing a hearttugging rendition of ‘Just Before The Battle, Mother.’ A cup of cold water poured on the songster’s head quieted him down for a few minutes. But, despite the jolly mood, the determined look in the eyes of the crew showed that they meant business and were ready to do or die. “Commodore Dewey signaled the uniform of the day—war clothes, pants or shorts and shoes.” The American squadron—with bright-hued signal flags whipping in the wind—looked every bit like warships on parade as it headed for a date with destiny.

The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898 Table 3.1 The American and Spanish Fleets at the Battle of Manila Bay May 1, 1898

AMERICAN SHIPS PROTECTED CRUISERS Olympia Boston Releigh Baltimore GUNBOATS Concord Petrel REVENUE CUTTER McCulloch CARGO SHIPS Nanshan Zafiro SPANISH SHIPS CRUISERS Reina Cristina Castilla Don Antonio de Ulloa Don Juan de Austria Isla de Cuba Isla de Luzon GUNBOATS General Lezo Marquis del Ducro Elcano Velasco Argus TRANSPORTS Isla de Mindanao Manila

15

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America at War

Louis Young continued: “We stood in toward the town to reconnoiter the harbor. Several foreign sailing vessels were anchored off Manila, but no menof-war were visible. “At fifteen minutes to five the squadron broke out Old Glory. We were immediately saluted with an angry salvo from a battery on the south bastion of the city. We did not return the fire, but headed for the navy yard at Cavite. “The Spanish fleet was sighted a few minutes later—the flame colored flags of Spain swaying listlessly from the mastheads. The enemy warships were stationed in a line from Sangley Point to the shoals near Las Pin˜as. Two vessels were anchored in Bacoor Bay on the south side of Cavite. The ships were protected by a large chain-covered boom, and barges filled with rocks. Admiral Montojo’s flagship, the Reina Cristina, was at the left of the line. “Suddenly, an enemy battery at Sangley Point opened fire. A shell quickly splashed in front of the Olympia. Commodore Dewey had given strict orders for us to hold our fire until an effective range had been reached The squadron continued to advance in line. The Olympia was followed by the Baltimore, Raleigh, Petrel, Concord and Boston. The McCulloch was stationed back in the bay as protection for the Nanshan and Zafiro.” From the Olympia’s forward bridge, Commodore Dewey directed the movements of his flotilla. The flagship’s commanding officer, Captain Charles V. Gridley, was in the conning tower waiting for orders to attack. As soon as the Olympia was 1,500 yards from Cavite, Dewey had his port five-inch battery turned toward the enemy fleet. Seconds later a shell burst above the flagship. A boatswain’s mate at one of the aft guns shouted “Remember the Maine!” and every sailor on deck echoed the cry. The commodore checked the distance with the gunnery officer, then glanced at his watch. The time was exactly five forty. He looked up at the conning tower and called out, “You may fire when ready, Gridley!” John T. McCutcheon described the action as he saw it from the decks of the McCulloch: “The shooting on both sides erupted violently. The roar of guns was continuous. Flashes of flame, geysers of water, and clouds of black smoke sent a rush of excitement through the American squadron. “The Reina Cristina showed up black and fierce in front of the enemy fleet. The Castilla was nearly abreast of her, and the Don Antonio de Ulloa rested slightly to the rear. Fronting Bacoor Bay were the Don Juan de Austria, Isla de Luzon, Isla de Cuba, and the Marquis del Ducro. Two gunboats, the General Lezo and the Velasco, steamed back and forth from the protection of Cavite. Occasionally, a small torpedo boat was seen darting from a river into Manila Bay and then back again.” The American squadron, steaming in a wide circle, fired bow and port guns as it passed the Spanish fleet. Then, forming a long ellipse, each ship brought its stern and starboard guns into play. Louis Young narrated. “We made a total of five complete circles of the bay

The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

17

at distances varying from 5,000 to 1,500 yards—three times from the east and twice from the west. “We had just finished the first circle, when Commodore Dewey gave the order to fire on the Cavite arsenal. We bombarded the fortress, but our shells seemed to have little effect. The Spanish big guns continued to shoot at us. “On the second circle, the Reina Cristina made a valiant effort to get outside the boom and run down the Olympia. For a few long minutes, she was seemingly impossible to stop. But, our rapid-fire guns finally slowed her attack. Admiral Montojo swung his ship around, hoping to reach the protection of Cavite. At that moment, however, an eight-inch shell from the Olympia crashed through the Spaniard’s stern, plowed completely through the vessel, and exploded in her forward magazine. “A moment later, the Reina Cristina was in flames. Black smoke poured from her hull. The Spanish admiral hauled down the colors and transferred them to the Isla de Cuba. “The Spaniards fought courageously—many of them going down with their ship and firing their guns until the very last. Even among the horrors of battle, one could not help but admire the valor of the enemy. “On the next circle of the bay, the Boston stood motionless for ten minutes, as her gun crews fired their weapons as fast as they could load and aim. “One Spanish shell struck the Baltimore in her starboard side. It did not explode, but ripped through the hammock netting wounding six men—then raced across the deck, ran around a gun shield, and finally spent itself between two ventilators. The shell was later presented to the Baltimore’s commanding officer, Captain Nehemiah Dyer.” Throughout the fierce battle, the Spanish guns concentrated on the Olympia. Splashing shells continually hurled a deluge of water across the flagship’s deck, nearly drowning the gun crews. The other ships in the squadron thought that the Olympia was sinking. All they could see of her were jets of flame poking through heavy clouds of acrid smoke. Joseph Stickney was on the Olympia’s bridge at the time and described the action. “Our only salvation was the enemy’s poor marksmanship. Most of their shots were too high, and roared into the bay beyond. One Spanish projectile, however, exploded less than a hundred feet from the forward bridge. Hot flying shrapnel sliced the rigging over the heads of Commander Benjamin Lamberton and myself. A fragment of another shell—about the size of a flatiron—gouged a hole in the deck a few feet below where Commodore Dewey was standing.” The American squadron had just completed its fifth circle of the bay when Captain Gridley reported that there were only fifteen rounds per gun remaining for the Olympia’s five-inch battery. Not wishing to alarm the crew, Dewey signaled his squadron to withdraw for “breakfast.” (John McCutcheon stated that Dewey’s reason for withdrawing from the battle was to learn what damage had been suffered by his ships.) As the battle-weary fleet steamed beyond the range of Spanish guns, clearing

18

America at War

smoke revealed the damage to Cavite and fires burning on several enemy vessels. Once safely out in the bay, Commodore Dewey held a conference with his squadron’s commanding officers. Ammunition was checked, and powder and shells were redistributed where necessary. Joseph Stickney voiced his opinion of the conflict: “We had been fighting a determined and courageous enemy for almost three hours without noticeably diminishing his volume of fire. As far as we could tell, there was no indication that the Spaniards were less able to defend themselves than they had been at the beginning of the engagement. “We knew that the Spanish had an ample supply of ammunition, so there was no hope of exhausting their fighting power even in a battle lasting twice as long. However, if we should run short of powder and shell, we might possibly become the hunted instead of the hunter. A gloom of desperation settled over the bridge of the Olympia. Dewey was disappointed by the results of our gunfire. Most of the shots were either too high or too low. On the fifth circle of the bay, the squadron was within 2,500 yards of Cavite. At that range and in a smooth sea, we should have had a great percentage of hits. However, as near as our spotters could judge, we had not crippled the enemy to any large extent.” While his ravenous sailors ate a hearty meal, Commodore Dewey scouted the Spanish shoreline with his binoculars. Heavy smoke partially obscured Cavite, but he was still able to make out the tall masts of ships flying the flag of Spain. Occasionally the sound of exploding ammunition could be heard in the distance. After his ships and men had rested for three hours, Dewey was ready to begin “Round Two” of the battle. Louis Young narrated: “At ten-fifteen the squadron prepared for another attack on the Cavite batteries. This time the Baltimore led the formation followed by the Olympia. The Raleigh and Boston formed on the right flank, and the Concord and Petrel on the left. “As we steamed toward Cavite, the sound of church bells could be heard coming from Manila. Curious spectators could be seen crowding the rooftops of buildings as if waiting to watch a pageant or play. “At 1,500 yards from the enemy, we opened fire. As the Boston and Raleigh moved up, the Olympia dropped back. The Baltimore stopped, and sent shell after shell into the Cavite stronghold. Within twenty minutes she had silenced the Spanish heavy guns. “The Boston and Raleigh steamed past Sangley Point, firing rapid-fire broadsides at the remaining fort. While, at the same time, the Petrel and Concord ran in behind the point and bombarded the enemy position from the rear, quickly reducing it to rubble. “The Concord fired a few rounds at the Spanish transport Mindanao. She had been run aground on the shoals off Las Pin˜as. After being assured that the vessel had been abandoned, Commander Asa Walker, the Concord’s captain, had his gunners use it for target practice. The ship was quickly set afire. “Only one Spanish warship slipped her moorings and steamed out to challenge

The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

19

the Americans. The captain of the Don Antonio de Ulloa nailed her colors to the mast, and in a brave but futile effort, engaged Dewey’s squadron. Within a couple of minutes, the Don Antonio de Ulloa became a funeral pyre. She sank in shallow water, her ensign still flying. A boat crew, sent over from the Petrel, removed the flag. It was later presented to Commodore Dewey.” With most of his fleet now sunk or burning, Admiral Montojo issued one last order to his officers, “Scuttle and abandon your ships!” The admiral then escaped to Manila in a small boat. John T. McCutcheon remarked: “About twelve thirty, a white flag was spotted flying over Cavite, and a signal was received from the shore that the Spanish had surrendered. When we heard the news, an explosion of cheers resounded through the fleet. There was a flutter of banners, and from every visible ship there were groups of shouting sailors. There was joy and exultation in every face and a gallant waving of flags that now seem more beautiful and inspiring than ever before.” After the boisterous celebrations had quieted down, Commodore Dewey notified his ships that there was still a war to be fought. Louis Young stated: “The Boston and Concord were ordered to remain off Cavite, while the rest of the squadron steamed up the coast to attack a shore battery that had made its presence felt throughout the engagement. But, just as we came within range, the Spaniards ran up a white flag. “One amusing incident that occurred during the height of the action showed what an utter disregard some of our men had for the seriousness of the situation. Two shell carriers aboard the Raleigh—both amateur musicians—would snatch moments between hustling ammunition to grab their guitar and violin, and strike up the inspiring song, ‘There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.’ Even Captain Joseph Coghlan, skipper of the Raleigh, had to laugh at the comical scene. “As the sun set that night, its last rays rested like a blessing on Old Glory, waving proudly from the mastheads of Uncle Sam’s doughty warriors. “At dark, the shores around Cavite glowed bright with the flames of burning ships. The Reina Cristina and Castilla looked like skeletons. The fires consuming them made their bones appear black against the white-hot heat. In the flickering light, the devastation at Cavite took on a surrealistic look—like the gateway to Hades. Occasionally an ammunition magazine would erupt like a volcano, throwing its flaming debris high in the air, making a grisly picture of the horrors of modern warfare.” The morning after the American victory at Manila Bay, Commodore Dewey sent medical personnel from his ships over to Cavite to care for the wounded and bury the dead. Louis Young recalled: “The effects of our bombardment were simply frightful. Dead and wounded were scattered about the ground like leaves in autumn. One wounded Spaniard (he had his legs shot away) could speak some English. He was living in the United States, but when he returned to Spain on a visit, he was forced to join the Spanish Navy. He stated that most

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America at War

of the ships in Admiral Montojo’s fleet had double crews—many of them volunteers from among local citizens, and that the total number of deaths would never be known. He also remarked that no sooner had a gun been loaded, than a storm of American shells would sweep away the gun crew. At the time that the Spanish admiral attempted to move his ship out into the bay, it received such a murderous barrage that the deck was one mass of exploding shells. The captain of the Reina Cristina was killed on the first salvo.” Amazingly, not one American sailor was killed in the naval battle, and only eight men were wounded. Commodore Dewey remarked: “This battle was won in Hong Kong Harbor. My captains and staff officers working with me planned out the fight with reference to all contingencies, and we were fully prepared for exactly what happened. Although I recognized the alternatives from reports that reached me—that the Spanish might meet me at Subic Bay or near Corregidor— I made up my mind that the battle would be fought right here that very morning, at the same hour, and with nearly the same position of opposing ships. That is why and how, at the break of day, we formed in perfect line, opened fire, and kept our station without mistake or interruption until the enemy fleet was destroyed.” Dewey’s victory at Manila Bay was unsurpassed in the naval history of that time. Never before had an entire fleet been destroyed without the loss of a ship or man of the attacking force. On May 10, 1898, George Dewey was promoted to rear admiral.

4

Joseph Montgomery’s Story “Colonel” Joseph Montgomery and “General” Duffy O’Ryan were a couple of soldier’s of fortune who were continually hunting up small wars. There was no shortage of armed conflicts throughout the world, and both men were much in demand. In one of his letters to Miss Rita Shield of New York City, Joe Montgomery described his ringside seat at the Battle of Manila Bay: “For months O’Ryan and I had been fighting up and down Luzon with the insurgent army. We liked the native people and they liked us. By early 1898, the Filipinos controlled all of Luzon except Manila, Corregidor and the area around Cavite. “Near the end of April, O’Ryan and I established our headquarters on the upper Bataan Peninsula—about thirty miles above Corregidor and directly across from the Spanish naval base at Cavite. “I was awakened about daylight on May 1 by heavy artillery fire. My first thought was that the Spaniards had mounted some long-range guns on Corregidor that could reach our position. But, as soon as I left my tent, I could see that the shooting was coming from the Spanish fleet and Fort Cavite. At first, I could not make out the reason for all the gunfire. But, then to my left, barely visible in the dim light, I could see a column of warships in perfect line approaching the Spanish anchorage at Cavite. By the time my aide brought me my field glasses, Duffy O’Ryan had joined me. “As the column of ships drew closer, I noticed that the first ship in line was flying the American flag. Both O’Ryan and I were puzzled. We could not understand what was happening. We had been in the jungle for weeks, and knew nothing of the outside world or the war between the United States and Spain. “With guns blazing, the American fleet turned broadside to Cavite, then swung back out into the bay, and circled for another attack. Suddenly there was a heavy explosion aboard one of the Spanish vessels. A moment later another

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ship burst into flames. Two small torpedo boats raced out from the protection of Cavite and headed for the American flagship—one was quickly sent to the bottom of the bay, and the other returned to base. We shouted and cheered and almost cried as each American shell found its mark. Here we were, two Americans, ten thousand miles from home, pulling for the navy of a country that would not allow us to return to the land we loved. “I should mention here that the U.S. Government had issued a warrant for our arrest for gunrunning and roughing up two secret service agents at Key West when they tried to arrest us. According to the government warrant, one of the agents had a broken jaw, and the other had a few crushed ribs and was missing an ear. We tried many ways to have the charges dropped and even offered to plead guilty and pay a fifty dollar fine. But the answer was always the same, ‘You cannot beat up United States Secret Service agents and get away with it. It is a penitentiary offense.’ “But, home or no home, it was still our country—our flag. The American ships took time out for breakfast, and then went back into action. By noon the Spanish fleet was no more except for two transports that surrendered. As I recall, the Spaniards lost about ten ships and a few hundred men. Our navy had a little paint scratched off the fenders of a boat or two and several sailors slightly injured. “After the battle, the American ships anchored in the bay near Manila. That afternoon O’Ryan had some native canoes filled with pineapples, bananas, coconuts and other fruit, and sent two boatloads to each of our warships. A few dozen chickens and three live pigs were added to the fleet commanders vessel. “As the heavily loaded canoes pulled away from the shore, I noticed that each craft carried a Filipino intelligence officer. I asked O’Ryan why all the food and secret agents. Duffy replied, ‘The intelligence officers will insist on delivering my compliments to the ship captains in person. That will give them a good looksee as to any damage.’ “The next day O’Ryan and I, wearing our dress uniforms and medals, boated out to the Olympia to pay our respects to Commodore George Dewey. The commodore and his crew were very courteous to us. We had met many of the ship’s officers and men during our ventures in Central and South America. They were very excited to have the well-known General Duffy O’Ryan and Colonel Joseph Montgomery visit the Olympia. “As we were leaving and pulling away from Commodore Dewey’s flagship, we were honored with a big-gun salute. I turned to O’Ryan, ‘They’re looking at us,’ I said. ‘Don’t count those salutes on your fingers! Let your brilliant intelligence officers do that!’ “O’Ryan smiled and sarcastically replied, ‘You should be in jail at Key West where you belong!’ “The next day, Commodore Dewey and his staff visited our headquarters. Several months later, O’Ryan was appointed to General Merritt’s staff, while I served with General MacArthur.

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“Regarding my long association with the general, in 1912 I was in Chicago, on the way to my Montana ranch. While waiting at the railroad station, I happened to meet General MacArthur, who was traveling to Milwaukee to attend a reunion of his old Civil War regiment. We had a grand visit, and talked over old times and old wars. “While having breakfast in the train’s dining car the next morning, a waiter handed me a newspaper. The first story that caught my eye was a shocker: ‘Lieutenant General Arthur MacArthur, while making a speech in Milwaukee tonight to comrades of his Civil War regiment, fell over dead. Then, as his adjutant tearfully spread the regimental flag across the body, he also dropped dead on top of his general.’ “I’ll always remember my last adventure with O’Ryan. The French government of the Ladrone Islands was having trouble with a native chieftain, Datu Loco, who had been on the warpath for months. The French wanted us to join a column that they were sending out to capture him. We did not care much for going on this expedition, but the government officials had always been good to us, so we agreed to support the troops. “Upon entering enemy territory, we were ambushed by a large force of howling natives. The datu’s men were giving us hell! O’Ryan’s machine gun quickly overheated—mine jammed. Duffy shouted to me, ‘Go on and fix it! I’ll cover you with my .45!’ “Just as I got my weapon working, O’Ryan cried out, ‘Here, take my gun, I’m done for!’ “I could see by the grimace on his face that he had been hit hard. O’Ryan collapsed and died at my feet. That was when I saw—not ten feet in front of me—the body of Datu Loco riddled with .45 caliber bullets. “Duffy O’Ryan’s death ended my career as a soldier. A very grateful governor of the Ladrones confiscated all of Datu Loco’s land and gave half of it to Mollie O’Ryan—Duffy’s wife. Today, Mollie has one of the largest and finest indigo plantations in the world. She is probably the most well-known American in the Orient. Mollie has a beautiful home at the plantation and one at Manila. She goes back to Brooklyn each year to see a baseball game. “Although Mollie has many friends and great wealth, the item that she values most is a cablegram that reads: General Duffy O’Ryan Manila, P.I. Attorney General Knox advises me that there is nothing in his file which will prevent you and Colonel Montgomery, two great American soldiers, from coming back to the land you so courageously defended. Would be delighted if you would spend a weekend with me at the White House when you return. (Signed) Theodore Roosevelt, President.”

5

After the Battle: Reports from Cavite In a letter to the Chicago Record, John T. McCutcheon described his impressions of Cavite and the sunken Spanish fleet. May 3, 1898 In response to a signal from the Olympia, the McCulloch hoisted anchor and rejoined the squadron. About 7 A.M., the Petrel—which had been at Cavite completing the destruction of half-sunk ships—returned to our anchorage with six captured launches. As she steamed abreast of the Olympia she was greeted with rousing cheers from the flagship. Gazing through the morning mist, smoke could be seen rising from the city of Manila, and it is thought that either the Spaniards are destroying their supplies, or the Filipinos have begun burning and pillaging. Smoke is also curling from several points in the suburbs, and it may be necessary to land marines to protect the Spanish and other foreign residents. About noon, the McCulloch was sent over to Cavite with instructions to enter the harbor at Can˜acao Bay. We took a position in the center of the bay, where the larger Spanish ships did most of their fighting. The sunken hulk of the Reina Cristina rested 200 yards to our right, and the Castilla about the same distance off our stern. The wreck of the Don Antonio de Ulloa was 150 yards to the left. Only the masts, battered funnels, and parts of shattered decks showed above water. On the shore, two sailing craft had been toppled in shallow water. A single Spanish flag was still flying over a building at Sangley Point, but a number of white flags waved above various government facilities, and Red Cross ensigns had been raised over hospitals and churches. There are hardly any signs of life along the shore, and the day has taken on a Sunday quiet that is a welcome relief after the thrilling events of yesterday. Occasionally a few people can be seen. Several men were observed carrying bundles and packages as if

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preparing to leave the area. And, the sight of some nuns conducting a funeral ceremony emphasized the death and destruction visited upon the Spaniards by Commodore Dewey’s squadron. During the afternoon, I took a dinghy and visited the wrecks in the bay. The Castilla showed only one upright funnel and two charred masts. The second funnel was leaning across the standing stack. Only a few inches of shattered railing were visible above water. The hull was still burning in a few places where small sections of woodwork remained, and a blue haze of smoke drifted lazily from the smoldering embers. The Reina Cristina had also been completely destroyed. Her funnels were perforated, and large gaping holes in her steel framework showed the accuracy of the American gunners. Her 8-inch guns still poked above water, and a number of small guns could be seen fore and aft. I noticed the body of a Spanish sailor sticking halfway out of a gun barbette. His legs were shot off, and there were slashing wounds in his hip. It was in this ship that so many died. The hull must be choked with those who fell before the sweeping gale of steel that was poured into her. In a day or two, the bodies will be floating to the surface. I noticed a live chicken perched on a stanchion at the bow. How it lived through the barrage of shells, exploding ammunition magazines, and roaring flames was a miracle. The Don Antonio de Ulloa was not entirely submerged. Her forecastle and chart room were above water, and masts, though standing, were splintered by shells. Boatloads of officers and sailors were crawling all over her, searching for souvenirs of the battle. Signal and boat flags, charts, books, small anchors and dozens of other items were eagerly grabbed as valuable relics. Other men have been diving down into the wreck, and bringing up all kinds of trophies, from clocks and compasses to chairs and capstan heads. One sailor proudly waved the fretted stock of a guitar. It was evidently smashed by its devoted owner to prevent the invading American vandals from capturing it. At first, I thought the scene of devastation in Can˜acao Bay was the very worst, but a trip to Bacoor Bay revealed even greater havoc and ruin. This bay was the naval station’s principal anchorage, and the graveyard of seven warships—all sunk and most of them charred by flames. The nameplates of the vessels are either gone or submerged, but it is known that among them are the cruisers Don Juan de Austria, Isla de Luzon and Isla de Cuba and the gunboats Marquis del Ducro, General Lezo, Elcano, and Velasco. These ships were among the finest in the Spanish navy, and enough remained showing of them to indicate how excellently armed and cared for the vessels were. A number of six-inch guns were still above water, and seemed to be in good condition. Some of them were without breech plugs, and it is probable that the Spaniards threw them overboard before scuttling their ships. Meanwhile, boatload after boatload of Filipinos are swarming into Cavite, and, as the Spanish army has fled to Manila, they are free to pillage to their heart’s content. The bay is dotted with cascos (a long, rectangular barge), and many outlandish-looking native boats—loaded to the water level with mountainuous piles of plunder, and manned by dozens of broad-hatted, swarthy Filipinos. The following morning, I went with a party of surgeons to the Can˜acao hospital. We were met at the landing by the Spaniards who conducted us to the building, and the shock of seeing the awful suffering and misery of more than two hundred victims of the battle was something that I will never forget. The wards were jammed with hastily improvised cots and hospital beds that bore men with every conceivable kind of wound. Row upon row of beds, with men whose legs

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and arms had been shot away, and whose bodies and faces were covered with bloodsoaked bandages, laid stretched on either side of the wards. Many thought that the Spaniards would show resentment and hatred toward the Americans, but such was not the case. There was a languid and appealing look of suffering on their faces, but no anger was observed. Those who were not seriously wounded, looked at us with curiosity and readily answered any questions asked of them. The surgeons said that the badly wounded were not ready to be moved to safety, but the Spaniards wanted a marine guard detachment to protect them from the Filipinos. The Spanish soldiers were fearfully afraid of the local natives, and were particularly apprehensive about powder magazines located near the hospital. Later that day, I walked from Can˜acao to Cavite, and passed hundreds of Spanish civilians—their carts loaded with household possessions—fleeing the Filipinos. At our guard posts, they freely surrendered pistols and knives, and seemed eager to have the Americans protect them. Every evidence of friendship that they could show us was exhibited. These were the common people—the soldiers had all fled to Manila. The streets of Cavite were littered with rubbish, and the Americans and Filipinos were stripping the naval base of everything that was not nailed down. Commodore Dewey landed a marine detachment to protect the hospitals and occupy the fortifications. I learned from a captured Spanish officer that the Filipinos had cut the cables between Corregidor and Cavite before Dewey’s squadron reached Manila Bay. For this reason, the Spanish fleet at Cavite was not aware that the Americans had entered the bay until the ships were sighted at daylight. The Raleigh and Baltimore were sent to Corregidor to capture the island’s fort and gun batteries. All the shore-based guns at Cavite are being destroyed, and the work of demolishing the fortifications and arsenal will begin immediately.

In the pages of The “Bounding Billow,” Louis Young described his impressions of Cavite: “Throughout the day on May 2, several small enemy vessels were captured—many of them carrying cattle and hogs which we confiscated as acceptable prizes of war. “Our squadron remained ready for further trouble, and night watches were permanently established to guard against attacks by Spanish torpedo boats. Commodore Dewey impressed upon our already over-burdened minds that this was war—in all its stern reality—and anyone caught ‘sleeping on watch’ would receive a lead passport to the ‘Land of Eternal Rest.’ This seemed uncivilized, but business is business, and a lack of vigilance could cost many American lives. “The Cavite Navy Yard is a rather imposing place, with several impressive buildings, along with storehouses, smithies, carpenter shops and barracks. The residence of the commandant was large and roomy, well furnished, and contained a splendid library. The lower floor of the house was devoted to the navy yard offices, and justice hall where severe punishment was meted out to lawbreakers. “The grounds of the yard were well laid out with footpaths and gardens ornamented by ancient cannons and pyramids of old cannon balls. The area

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abounds with groves of banana, mango, orange and magnolia trees, which give off a very pleasant aroma. “The arsenal itself was a beehive of activity, as the Filipinos were busy carrying away artillery pieces, ammunition and Mauser rifles. They appeared delighted at the defeat of their former rulers. The Americans were also rushing about like rabbits in a cabbage patch. However, they had a different agenda. Our sailors had been bitten by the ‘souvenir bug,’ and the ships quickly began to look like veritable curiosity shops, crammed with Spanish swords, bayonets, rifles, and anything else the men could haul aboard—with or without permission. “Below decks, the situation was quickly getting out of hand—buying, selling and trading the spoils of war. It did not take long, however, before Commodore Dewey put an end to the festivities. The following lines of poetry describe the excitement of the treasure hunt: They’ve got flags and scraps of iron, Tomahawks and bay’nets too, Soldier’s pants without the linin’ ’Nother’s got a woman’s shoe. They’ve got knives marked “Mi Amigo,” Which is Spanish for “my friend.” Swords and daggers marked “Toledo” That a Sandow couldn’t bend. Every man had shot or shell Which was added to his hoard. Some brought trophies they could sell To the suckers left on board. One sailor had a large ship’s bell That he claimed he won. And several others worked like hell To get a three-inch gun. There was a blunderbuss from sixty-seven which adorned some mantle piece Old socks and bits of ribbon, And a box of axle grease. There were admiral’s flags and pennants, That numbered o’er a score. All from the “R. Cristina,” Or so each owner swore. Some hauled off a coat of arms From the stately justice hall, And others took the mirrors That hung ag’in the wall. We expect to see more action, And lots of bloody scenes, But these are mild distractions Compared to the crazy souvenir fiends.

6

Spanish Reports: Call to Arms and Battle Accounts The following letter from the Spanish governor general, Basilio Augustin y Davila, was discovered posted on a bulletin board in the Cavite arsenal. It was translated from the Spanish and published in an issue of The “Bounding Billow.”

April 27, 1898 “SPANIARDS” Hostilities have broken out between Spain and the United States of North America. The moment has arrived to prove to the world that we possess the spirit to conquer those who—pretending to be loyal friends—take advantage of our misfortunes, and abuse our hospitality, using means which civilized nations regard as unworthy and disreputable. The North American people have exhausted our patience and provoked war with their acts of treachery, and with their outrages against the laws of nations and international treaties. The struggle will be short and decisive. The God of victories will give us one as complete as the righteousness and justice of our cause demands. Spain, which counts upon the sympathies of all the nations, will emerge triumphant from this new test— humiliating and blasting the adventurers from those States that, without cohesion and without a history, offer to humanity only infamous traditions, and the spectacle of a Congress united in insolence, defamation, cowardice and cynicism. A naval squadron manned by foreigners, possessing neither instruction nor discipline, is preparing to come to this archipelago with the ruffianly intention of robbing us of all that means life, honor and liberty. Pretending to be inspired by a courage of which they are incapable, the North Americans intend to take possession of your riches, as if they were unacquainted with the rights of property, and to kidnap those persons whom they consider useful to man their ships, or to be exploited as common laborers. Your indomitable bravery will suffice to frustrate their plans. You will not consent

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that they shall profane your faith or that their unbelief shall destroy the Holy images that you adore. The aggressors shall not violate the tombs of your fathers. They shall not gratify their lustful passions at the cost of your wives’ and daughters’ honor nor appropriate the property which your hard work has accumulated to assure your livelihood. No, they shall not perpetrate any of those crimes inspired by their wickedness and greed. Your valor and patriotism will suffice to punish and shame the people that, claiming to be civilized and cultivated, have exterminated the natives of North America, instead of bringing to them civilization and progress. Filipinos, prepare yourselves for the struggle, and, united under the glorious flag of Spain, which is ever covered with laurels, let us fight with the conviction that victory will crown our efforts with the patriot’s cry of “Viva Espan˜a!”

Spanish newspaper articles written about the Battle of Manila Bay are different from American accounts but add an interesting perspective to the sea battle. The following story was published a few days after the naval engagement in the Diario de Manila and translated into English by a member of the staff of The “Bounding Billow.” The translator stated: “To judge by the disconnected wording of the article, the writer must have viewed the battle from a pineapple orchard, or some other place of safety a good many miles distant.” The story was titled “A Naval Surprise” and has been edited for clarity. May 4, 1898 When the enemy squadron was sighted, steaming in a perfect line of battle, through the clouds of a misty dawn on the morning of the first of May, a feeling of surprise and despair spread quickly among the people of Manila. At last the American ships had boldly appeared on our coast, defying our batteries, which showed more courage and valor than effect when they opened fire on the attacking squadron. The inequality of our guns, compared to those of the enemy, alarmed the citizens of Manila and was enough to change the tranquil character of our tropical temperaments. Ladies and children, in carriages or on foot, fled in fright to seek refuge in the suburbs and adjacent villages around the capital. Every man from stately personage to the most humble workman, merchants and mechanics, Spaniards and natives, soldiers and civilians, all put on their arms, confident that the enemy would never capture Manila unless he passed over their corpses. Yet, from the first moment, the strength of the American armored squadron, and the power of its guns, demonstrated that its ships were invulnerable to our energies and artillery. The hostile fleet would never have entered our bay if they did not believe they had superiority. The city walls, church towers, roofs of buildings, and other places convenient for observation, were crowded by those who were not on military duty at the bridges or advanced posts. The slightest details of the enemy’s ships were eagerly noted as they approached Cavite in a line parallel with the beaches of Manila. There were no gaps in the line, but the

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curious public hardly realized the disparity between the American naval guns and the pieces mounted on our fortifications. Some of the spectators had spyglasses, but all seemed to devour with their eyes these strangers who, while brave, were not called upon to show their courage, since the range of their guns and the weakness of our batteries enabled them to attack us with impunity, while doing as much damage as they pleased to our ships and forts. All who watched the hostile ships maneuver, as if on parade, were full of rage and desperation such as belongs to the brave man who is unable to show his courage and to whom remains no remedy except an honorable death rather than cowardly inactivity. A soldier of the First Battalion of Cazadores gazed at the American squadron sweeping over the waters, out of reach of the fire of our guns. He looked out at the enemy ships, and then toward heaven, and cried out, “If Holy Mary would turn the sea into land, the Yankees would find out how we can charge in double time.” Another soldier staring out at the ships said, “Just let them come ashore, and give us a whack at them.” For more than an hour and a half, the bombardment held in suspense those souls who followed the unequal struggle, in which the Spanish ships went down with their glorious banners flying. From Manila, we could see, through spyglasses and binoculars, the two squadrons mingled together in clouds of smoke. This might have been a victory for our men, if our batteries had not been so weak. For, once alongside the enemy, the cry of “Boarders Away!” and the flash of cold steel could have enabled our devoted seamen to disturb the composure of the Americans. In the blindness of our rage, how should we paint the heroic deeds, the prowess, the waves of valor which burst forth from our men-of-war? Those who fought beneath the Spanish flag bore themselves like men—as chosen sons of our native land who would rather die with their ships, than live in ships that surrendered. To name those who distinguished themselves in battle would require the publication of the entire muster rolls of our fleet—from captain to cabin boy. To these brave seamen of ours, we offer congratulations—laurels for the living, prayers for the dead—and for all, our deepest gratitude. Since we cannot reconstruct the bloody scene which was exhibited last Sunday in the waters of Cavite, we will not attempt a description, which would only be a pale shadow of great deeds deserving a perpetual place in the pages of history. When the hostile squadron turned toward Cavite, our sailors heard the drums beating to quarters, and answered with three rounds of cheers for the King, for the Queen, and for Spain. Then absolute silence prevailed. The ships and their crews were ready. Any thought of death was lost in ardor for the fray, and every eye was fixed on the battle flags waving from our mastheads. The Yankee ships advanced in battle array. The Olympia, flying the admiral’s flag, led the enemy column steaming at full speed toward Cavite. The Olympia opened fire and received an instant reply from our harbor battery as the enemy flagship shaped her course for the Reina Cristina and Castilla. The Olympia, and the ships following in her wake, poured a steady and rapid fire into our fleet. The cannonading continued until a quarter to eight when, at that moment, the Don Juan de Austria advanced against the enemy, intending to attack and board the Olympia. But, a tremendous broadside stopped her charge. The captain of the Reina Cristina, seeing how this attempt had failed, dashed to within two hundred yards of the Olympia, when a sudden shower of shells swept her bridge

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and decks, littering the gallant vessel with dead and wounded. A thick column of black smoke from her bow compartment showed that an incendiary projectile—such as the law of God and man prohibits—had set fire to the ship. Mortally wounded, the Reina Cristina withdrew toward the arsenal, where she was scuttled to keep her from falling into the hands of the Yankees. The desperation of the men of the Reina Cristina was aggravated by the sight of the Castilla—also ablaze from a similar use of incendiary shells. The American vessels, some of them badly crippled by the fire from our ships and the battery at Sangley Point, withdrew toward the bay entrance, where their crews were busy repairing the damage to the squadron. At ten o’clock, the enemy returned to complete their work of destruction. In this second assault, the Cavite batteries were silenced, and the rest of our fleet was bombarded. During this attack, one Yankee gunboat—which seemed to have nothing more venturesome to accomplish—set to work to riddle the mail steamer Isla de Mindanao. Now that our ships were all in flames, Admiral Montojo—who had shown his flag as long as there was a vessel afloat—escaped to Manila, and hostilities ceased. The gunners of the batteries defending Manila and Cavite showed the highest degree of energy and heroism. Every Spaniard applauds these brave artillerymen who, by their calmness and skill, did all that was possible with the guns assigned to them. The battery that did the most damage to the enemy was the one at Sangley Point. One of its guns fired the shell that forced the Baltimore to withdraw from the fight. This gun must have greatly annoyed the Yankees, judging by the efforts they made to silence its fire. It has been proposed to bestow the laurel-wreathed Cross of San Fernando upon the brave gunners who served this battery. Admiral Montojo has received a telegram of congratulations from the Minister of Marine who—in his own name and the name of the Queen of Spain—saluted the Spanish Navy upon its gallant conduct at Cavite with the following statement: “Honor and glory to the Spanish Fleet that fought so heroically at Manila Bay.”

A letter to the editor of The “Bounding Billow” correctly pointed out several errors in the Spanish newspaper’s account of the battle. “The story that appeared in the Diario de Manila is as fair as could be expected from a Spaniard, but a few statements were either untrue or exaggerated. For instance, in one paragraph, the writer states that the weakness of their batteries enabled us to do as much damage as we chose. No doubt. But he omits to say that only a few days before we arrived, they were holding a high-carnival in anticipation of their coming victory over us. “He also seems to forget that the days of boarding men-of-war are over. It certainly would have been a poetical climax to have the two flagships go down together—but then the Spanish always were a poetical race. “The writer further stated that we used incendiary projectiles, which either shows his ignorance of the laws of warfare, or a desire to mislead his readers. “That the Spanish fought heroically cannot be denied, and far be it from us to belittle their bravery in this action. As for the brave soldier of the Cazadores, who prayed the Virgin Mary to turn the sea into land, so they could rush us— thirty thousand Spaniards against about sixteen hundred Americans—let me

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quote the remark of one of our sailors, who very naively remarked, ‘That fellow will be praying for another forty day flood when General Merritt and his troops arrive!’ ” Admiral Patricio Montojo’s account of the events leading up to the naval engagement at Manila Bay and the battle itself was published in the Madrid newspaper, El Imparcial. The following edited translation of the story appeared in the August 1898 issue of The “Bounding Billow.”

July 22, 1898 At 11 P.M., on the 25th of April, I sailed from Manila bound for Subic Bay with a squadron composed of the cruisers Reina Cristina, Don Juan de Austria, Isla de Cuba, Isla de Luzon, the dispatch boat Marques del Duero, and the wooden cruiser Castilla— which could only be used as a floating battery due to the bad condition of her hull. The following morning on arrival at Subic, I conferred with Captain Del Rio, who, while unable to placate me in regard to the defensive works, assured me that they would be completed promptly. Meanwhile, the Castilla was taking on water through her shaft bearings and aft planking. Work went on night and day to stop the leaks. The ship was finally made as tight as possible, but it was almost impossible to use her engine. On the morning of the 27th, I moved the squadron out to cover the Subic Bay entrance. The Castilla was stationed off the northwest point of Isla Grande to defend the western channel leading into the bay. The eastern channel had been blocked by the hulls of three old scuttled ships. To my disgust, however, I learned that the guns which should have been mounted on the island a month and a half ago had not yet been installed. I was also irritated by the fact that only a small number of mines had been laid down. I had to accept the reality that Subic Bay was defended by neither mines nor artillery. And, my inadequate squadron might be forced to face the Americans in twenty fathoms of water, with almost a certainty that, not only would our ships be lost, but also their crews could not be saved. I had hopes that the Americans might not come to Subic, which would give us time to make better preparations. But, the next day, I received the following telegram from the Spanish Consul at Hong Kong: “The enemy’s squadron left Mirs Bay at two o’clock this afternoon, and according to confidential information will proceed to Subic Bay to destroy our fleet, and later will go on to Manila.” The message showed that the Americans knew where my ships could be found and the defenseless state of Subic. Later during the day, April 28th, I called a meeting of my commanding officers, and all agreed that we should proceed to Manila Bay where battle conditions would be more favorable. At first, we had planned to station the squadron near the city of Manila, but the commandant of the town stated that far from protecting Manila, it would provoke the enemy to bombard the city. A unanimous decision was reached to position our ships in Can˜acao Bay, in order to combine our fire with the batteries at Sangley Point and Cavite. I immediately ordered Captain Del Rio to concentrate his forces at the best strategic

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point of the Cavite arsenal and to make arrangements to burn any coal at the depot in time to prevent it from falling into the enemy’s hands. I sent the Don Juan de Austria to Manila to collect as many barges as possible and fill them with sand and stone. I intended to use these barges to protect the waterlines of my moored ships against the enemy’s shells and torpedoes. At 10:30 A.M. on the 29th, I left Subic Bay with my squadron—the Castilla being towed by the transport Manila. That evening, we anchored in Can˜acao Bay in twentysix feet of water. The morning of the 30th of April revealed our line of battle. The Reina Cristina in the forefront—followed by the Castilla, Don Juan de Austria, Don Antonio de Ulloa, Isla de Luzon, Isla de Cuba, and the Marques del Duero. The Manila was sent into Bacoor Bay to join the Velasco and General Lezo, which were undergoing repairs. At seven o’clock that evening, I received a telegram from Subic stating that the American squadron had entered the harbor—apparently in search of our ships—and then headed for Manila. The transport, Isla de Mindanao, came over, and I advised her captain to try and save his ship by steaming at once for Singapore, since the enemy could hardly reach the mouth of the bay before midnight. The captain, however, had no authority from the Transatlantic Company to leave Manila Bay, so I told him to anchor in shoal water as near Bacoor as possible. About midnight we heard gunfire from the vicinity of Corregidor, and at two in the morning, I received a telegram saying that the American squadron had opened fire on our batteries at the harbor entrance. I notified the commandant of the Cavite arsenal, Senor Garcia Pen˜a, to prepare for an attack and ordered the guns to be loaded and all officers and men to go to their battle stations. My ships had been painted dark gray and had been stripped of their yards, light spars, and their boats, in order to avoid the dangers from shells. All anchors had been buoyed in readiness for slipping the cables at a moment’s notice. At 4 A.M., general quarters was called, and at a quarter to five, the Don Juan de Austria signaled the approach of the enemy squadron. A few minutes later, I sighted the American ships at about 5,000 yards in a column parallel to our line. At five o’clock, the Sangley Point battery opened fire. The first two shots fell short of the enemy lead ship. The Americans did not reply to these shells but headed directly toward our anchorage. About a quarter past five, the Manila batteries and the guns of my squadron opened fire. The enemy immediately responded, and the combat became general. Our anchor cables were slipped, and engines started. The American gunners kept up a rapid fire, and we were showered by innumerable projectiles. The three leading enemy ships concentrated their attack on the Reina Cristina. Moments after the beginning of the action, a shell burst in the forecastle, disabling the crews of our four rapid-fire guns and driving splinters from the foremast, wounding the helmsman who was steering from the bridge. The wheel was taken over by Lieutenant Don Jose Nun˜ez who, with calmness worthy of the highest praise, continued to steer the ship until the end of the battle. The enemy reduced his distance and, improving his aim, covered the Reina Cristina with a hailstorm of missiles. One shell exploded aft, killing nine men. Another burst in the wardroom, turning the temporary hospital into a bloody morgue, while another exploded in the aft ammunition room, filling the compartments with smoke. This ammunition room had to be flooded when cartridges began to go off.

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Meanwhile amidships, various small caliber shells had pierced the funnels, and a large projectile killed twelve gunners and destroyed the starboard bow gun. Our broadside guns remained undamaged and kept up their fire. They were operated by a single gun captain and a petty officer and loaded by seamen who took the place of the dead and wounded gun crews. The ship was soon unable to be controlled by the helm, and two large fires were blazing. Half our crew was dead or wounded, including most of the officers. I gave orders to scuttle and abandon the ship before the magazines and shell rooms exploded. At the same time, I signaled the Isla de Cuba and Isla de Luzon to pick up my men struggling in the water. I grabbed my flag, and with the members of my staff who were still alive, transferred to the Isla de Cuba. It was with profound grief that I hoisted the flag on the Cuba. Although many men had been saved from the Reina Cristina, her commanding officer, Captain Don Luis Cardarso, was killed while directing the rescue of his crew. The Don Antonio de Ulloa also defended herself with tenacity. She was sunk by shells that holed her waterline. Her captain, and more than half her crew, was lost. The Castilla, which fought like a tiger, had all her guns put out of action except the one on the poop deck, which gallantly kept up the attack against the enemy. Finally, with the ship riddled by shot and shell and aflame from bow to stern, her captain, Don Alonzo Morgado, ordered his men to abandon her. The Don Juan de Austria, also severely damaged, stood by to rescue the survivors. About seven-thirty, the enemy squadron suspended its action and moved out into the bay. I ordered my remaining ships to take their positions in the bay and prepare to fight the Americans to the end, rather than surrender. At half past ten, the enemy returned, forming a circle to attack the arsenal and my ships. The Americans opened a devastating fire on us. We feebly replied with the few guns that we still had mounted. When it appeared that further action against the enemy was impossible, I ordered my ship officers to scuttle their vessels, taking care to save the ensigns, distinguishing pennants, money in safes, small arms, breech-plugs of the guns, and signal codes. I then proceeded to the Convent of Santo Domingo at Cavite where I had a leg wound treated and telegraphed a brief report of the battle. It remains only for me to state that the weakness of the ships of my squadron, the deficiency of gunner’s mates, the unfitness of some engineers, the great scarcity of rapidfire guns, and the lack of armored protection for most of my ships—all combined to render more cruel the sacrifice we made on the altars of our country.

7

The Siege of Manila: Reports from the Blockade In a series of letters to the Chicago Record, John T. McCutcheon vividly described the excitement of the U.S. Navy’s blockade of Manila Bay and the siege of the city. May 15, 1898 A day in a blockaded port is usually dull and monotonous—but there is always the possibility that something exciting will happen. The Manila blockade is unique in this regard. The kind of warfare now being waged between the Spaniards and the insurgents dug in along the shores of the bay is tense and explosive. Meanwhile, frequent storm squalls, incident to the monsoon season, make life aboard the fleet fraught with danger. Practically every day, we hear the sound of rifle fire from the fringe of trees that line the shore. And practically every day we are subjected to fearful torrents of rain. Besides being the home of the dreaded typhoon, the Philippine Islands are home to earthquakes and the abode of hot, humid weather. Adding to these natural perils, is the constant menace of two Spanish torpedo boats reported to be hiding somewhere on the Pasig River. As a consequence, American ships anchored in the bay are forced to take every precaution necessary. Because of the danger, the nights are always interesting, with the thrilling call to general quarters expected at any moment. The American warships lie clustered near Cavite. The Olympia is a mile offshore, and the Concord, Boston and Baltimore are in line with her. The Raleigh and McCulloch are a few hundred yards inshore, and the Petrel is nearly abreast of the Cavite arsenal. From where the McCulloch is anchored, I can see the shattered, sunken hulks of the Reina Cristina, Castilla and Don Antonio de Ulloa. A low fringe of trees extends along the shore from Bacoor Bay to the city of Manila. It is a mere strip of vegetation that gradually merges into the foothills of the mountain ranges. Manila—with all her domes and steeples—always looks the same. And, from the

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distance, shows nothing to indicate the suffering and privations of her people. Far off to the south of the city, the faint smoke of a volcano scratches a distinctive mark on the skyline. Anchored in the bay north of Manila are more than twenty foreign ships. They sit like anxious circus spectators waiting for the show to begin. For our navy, each day starts at 5 A.M. when the sound of reveille echoes across the water, followed by the shrill shriek of the bo’sun’s whistle. Companionways become lively, and the task of lashing fat, folded hammocks begins. At five-thirty, hot coffee is served, and then the morning ritual of scrubbing down the decks begins. For the next hour, the busy sounds of splashing water and scrubbing brushes are heard as barefooted sailors scour every inch of the Oregon pine deck. By the time the bugler blows mess call—at 7:20 A.M.—everything is shipshape for the day. At eight o’clock, “colors” is sounded. The bands on the Olympia and Baltimore strike up the “Star Spangled Banner.” Every man on deck comes to rigid attention and salutes the flag as it quickly rushes to the top of the mast. A launch, carrying a marine detachment, shoves off from the Baltimore and heads for Cavite. They are to relieve the men who have been on twenty-four hour guard duty. Each marine is dressed in white and carries a Lee-Metford rifle. Each morning is tranquil at first. Then suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, a swarm of native outriggers jam up alongside each ship’s gangway ladders, and the broad-belted, scantily clad Filipinos shout their wares to waiting sailors crowding the deck rails. A wide variety of goods—mangoes, cigars, chickens, eggs and bananas—are among the items peddled by the natives. The scenic landscape circling the bay is beautiful and smiling. Along with many various colored mountain peaks, a green mantle of vegetation stretches for miles inland from the harbor. The low Spanish buildings and ancient fortifications of Cavite, the white clusters of houses that mark the villages of Bacoor and Paran˜aque and, lastly, the fleet of ships and fishing boats that fill the bay form a fascinating panorama of colors that rival the Bay of Naples. Occasionally a launch, carrying several officers from one of the foreign ships, lands at Cavite. The men visit the wrecks of the Spanish fleet and explore picturesque Old Cavite and the native village of San Roque. Every few days, Admiral Dewey’s white barge can be seen making a trip to the Cavite arsenal. On these trips, the bronzed face of the “Hero of Manila” is shaded by a white sun hat. His appearance is that of the ideal warrior. The admiral is usually very amiable, but there are times—as the officers of the Olympia can testify—that his eyes can become as fierce and glowering as a dark thundercloud. Just abreast of the Olympia—200 yards distant—is the dispatch boat McCulloch that has been my home for the past few months. She is always under steam—ready to dash out and intercept any vessel entering Manila Bay. This is interesting work. There is always the possibility of the “stranger” being a Spanish merchantman that has been at sea for many months and out of touch with the current situation in the Philippines. There is also the chance, however, that the vessel might be a ship from Hong Kong, loaded with mail and carrying the latest newspapers. The majority of the foreign men-of-war that have entered the bay have been English and German. Both nations paint the hulls of their ships white and the funnels yellow. Their ensigns are almost identical, and it is difficult to distinguish between them. Not every trip made by the McCulloch was a daytime run. She also conducted a

The Siege of Manila 7.1

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The Pasig River from Manila to Laguna de Bay

number of night missions—searching for any Spanish ships that might attempt to sneak down the Pasig River and test the blockade. On other occasions, the McCulloch was ordered out at midnight to scout the entire harbor. On an assignment of this kind, all lights were extinguished, and the gun crews posted on high alert—ready to fire at any vessel that refused an order to stop. After exploring Mariveles Bay and the waters around Corregidor, the McCulloch would check out the inlets of the many rivers that flow into Manila Bay. Then, before

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returning to her anchorage, she would circle the foreign fleets. All the ships were counted to make sure that none of them had slipped out of the bay without notifying Admiral Dewey. The McCulloch’s most exciting assignment was her mission on the night of May 1 when she was sent into the mouth of the Pasig River to intercept any Spanish torpedo boats that might venture out into the bay. Throughout the night, the McCulloch lay only a few hundred feet from a Spanish Krupp battery that could have easily blown her out of the water. She was called to general quarters twice. Every gun was manned, and officers strapped on their sidearms, but not a shot was fired by either side. This section of the river was reported to be well protected by mines, and we learned afterwards that the McCulloch had been sitting almost in the middle of the minefield. Whenever Admiral Dewey leaves the Olympia to return official visits to the foreign warships, he is always escorted by either the McCulloch or Concord. The men-of-war sent here by other nations are anchored so close inshore to Manila, that it was considered inadvisable to expose him to the possibility of capture. An enemy river gunboat might easily steam out and seize the admiral’s barge. Since the rainy season is now upon us, hardly a day passes without a sudden, heavy downpour. The bay may be calm and flacid at noon, when only a half hour later the water can be stirred into a froth of white-capped waves as a drenching rainstorm shakes the ships as they strain at their anchor chains. The most enjoyable time of day is in the evening. Beginning at 6 P.M., the Olympia’s band gives a one-hour concert, ending with the “Star Spangled Banner.” As night falls on the bay, the Manila waterfront begins to twinkle as the city’s lights are turned on. And bright, flickering stars to the northward mark the spot where the foreign ships lie clustered together. The American vessels are darkened, and their searchlights begin traveling across the water. Shadowy figures appear on the quarterdeck—the curling smoke from their cigars floating off into the night. These are the hours devoted to digesting the latest gossip and rumors that slip secretly throughout the fleet. At the present time, several German warships are in the harbor, and there is considerable speculation as to their intentions. The insurgents and Spaniards are fighting every day. The situation is explosive. So, taking everything into consideration, every twentyfour hours on blockade duty in Manila Bay is anything but dull. June 30, 1898 Admiral Dewey is receiving hundreds of letters, cablegrams, newspaper clippings, and numerous invitations from cities throughout America to be the guest of honor at a “Dewey Days” celebration. All the messages are congratulatory and very enthusiastic. Politicians are clamoring for him to run for president of the United States in 1900 and are predicting glowing prospects for the country’s future with George Dewey at the helm of the Ship of State. The song sheets, “What Did Dewey Do To Them?” “How Did Dewey Do It?” and “Dewey’s Duty Done!” have arrived. And a new brand of cigars, “Dewey Manilas,” are racking up large sales in America. Every mail brings new evidence of his popularity. Captain Albert Mahan’s statement that the Battle of Manila Bay was the greatest ever recorded in naval history was particularly gratifying to the admiral—coming as it did from such an eminent authority.

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Yet, despite this continuous bombardment of compliments and congratulations, the admiral has not changed in the least. He stated that while the naval battle was going on, he did not feel that he was doing anything special. Dewey said that his most trying time was sneaking past Corregidor Island at night, for he had no way of knowing where or when the enemy would attack. But, on the morning of May 1, when he could see the Spanish fleet, he was confident of victory. The mission of leading his ships into Manila Bay and cleaning out everything in sight was a detail that, at the time, did not seem so impressive. Besides being entrenched around the city of Manila, Aguinaldo’s forces are carrying out military operations in other districts on Luzon. There has been a great deal of fighting in Pampanga Province. A Spanish force of 400 men was driven from Angeles and Bacolor. As they retreated, the Spaniards burned Bacolor to the ground. At Angeles, they placed women and children in front of their columns as they withdrew. The wife and five children of Spain’s governor-general, Basilio Augustin, were captured at Macabebe. They were brought to Cavite and detained. Vice-Admiral Otto von Diederichs, commanding the German fleet in the bay, sent a message to Emilio Aguinaldo, requesting the release of Augustin’s wife and children. Aguinaldo has refused to grant this, and it is doubtful that he could do so even if he tried. The insurgents believe that by keeping Augustin’s family as hostages, the governorgeneral will cease his cruel treatment of captured Filipinos. On more than one occasion, Aguinaldo has stated that he would kill a Spanish officer for every insurgent prisoner executed in Manila. This threat, however, has not been effective. In fact, sympathizers to the insurgent cause have been shot without any provocation. The uncle of a member of Aguinaldo’s staff was put to death last week. As a result, bitter feelings against the Spaniards are running high. A major concern among the insurgents is what will become of their cause if America decides to keep the Philippines. Aguinaldo himself has been silent on the subject, but this caution has not been observed by some of his followers. Basilio Augustin refuses to meet with Aguinaldo or acknowledge him as leader of the rebels. An example of the governor-general’s pride was shown recently when he wished to have about 200 wounded Spanish soldiers, hospitalized at Cavite, to be brought to Manila. Augustin—not wanting to be put into the position of asking Aguinaldo for a favor—persuaded the British consul to make the request. England’s ambassador agreed to the plan, and Augustin sent three surgeons—under a Red Cross flag—to Cavite. The Spaniards arrived in two steam launches towing barges. But, when they presented a letter from the British ambassador, Aguinaldo rejected the request. He felt that it should have come from the Spanish governor-general. However, after several hours of tense negotiations, an agreement was reached. The most seriously injured soldiers would be evacuated to Manila, while those who gave promise of early recovery would remain at Cavite. Living conditions for Spaniards imprisoned at Cavite are free from want. The men are quartered in clean, comfortable barracks and are well fed. They are allowed to keep whatever money they have and are permitted to buy anything they can afford. It did not take long for Filipino merchants to learn about this, and small food stands have sprung up outside the prison windows. The natives are doing a flourishing business selling chickens, fruit, tobacco and other items to the Spanish. The Cavite prison barracks are quite luxurious compared to those intended for captured Americans. An enemy informant stated that the Spaniards were so confident of victory

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over the United States that they made barbaric preparations for American prisoners of war. I was told that a series of ancient dungeons that had been cut from solid rock exists under the outer walls of Manila. They have arched ceilings, and the only light that enters is from a small double-barred window. The dungeons are damp and foul-smelling. Large spiders crawl and spin their webs on the walls, and pools of stagnant water lie in scattered patches on the rough stone floor. The only furniture in the cell is a six-foot-wide wooden bench that has been built along the walls for sleeping. It was in a dungeon such as this that sixty Filipino prisoners died in one night during the 1872 revolt against Spanish oppression. The concentration of German warships in Manila Bay continued to annoy Admiral Dewey. Five German men-of-war are here now, and two more cruisers are expected in a couple of days. This will mean that seven out of the eight ships that Germany has in the Far East will be anchored at Manila. The massing of these vessels here at this critical time is significant. According to an unwritten law of international courtesy, it is unusual for more than two or three ships of a foreign power to gather in a blockaded port. Vice-Admiral von Diederichs stated that Germany is making a demonstration in Manila Bay for the purpose of benefiting trade relations between his country and the Philippines. The Spaniards in Manila look upon the Germans as their friends, and they seem to regard the arrival of the German fleet as an encouragement to continue their subjugation of the native population. Whenever a German ship leaves the bay for several hours and then returns, an American naval officer is required to board the vessel going and coming. This directive irritated the Germans. They retaliated by carrying out searchlight drills at all hours of the night— without asking permission—and engaging in other conduct that violated the blockade rules. On several occasions, German ships saluted the Spanish flag. This showed either support for Spain or was an exhibition of hostile indifference to protocol. Tension between Admiral Dewey and the Germans was like a simmering pot about to boil over. Then, a few days ago, I was aboard the McCulloch patrolling near Corregidor Island, when the German cruiser Irene was sighted leaving the bay. The ship’s captain was slow in replying to the signal to stop, but our boarding officer still managed to catch up with her after a long row. Upon her return to Manila Bay, the Irene was again signaled, but this time she did not stop. The McCulloch was forced to cross the cruiser’s bow before the German captain obeyed the order. Somehow, this incident reached the outside world in a highly provocative form. It was widely reported that the McCulloch stopped the Irene by firing a shot across her bow. As far as Otto von Diederichs was concerned, this was the last straw. He sent his flag lieutenant over to the Olympia to lodge a formal complaint. But Dewey, who had just finished reprimanding a member of his crew, was in no mood for diplomatic niceties. He was storming mad and shouted, “Is Germany at war with the United States? If she is, we can have a go at it right here and now! If not she will have to conform to my blockade orders!” The heated exchange of words ended the argument, but I am convinced that the Germans came to Manila with a devious purpose in mind. The United States had publicly announced that America was fighting to free Cuba and would leave the island after the Spaniards were defeated. I believe that the Germans thought the same would be true of

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the Philippines and wanted to be on hand to seize the islands before the British grabbed them. July 10, 1898 Early on the morning of July 6, I traveled by boat to Paran˜aque where Aguinaldo’s headquarters for that district is located. The town is on the shore of Manila Bay, about halfway between Bacoor and Malate. General Mariano Noriel is in charge of the insurgent forces in the area, and his command post is in an old church near the bay. Several days ago, Admiral Dewey permitted the Filipinos to take three old Spanish cannons from the Cavite navy yard. They were towed by boat to Paran˜aque, then overland to Pineda—the last small village within insurgent lines. The cannons were hauled by carts on roads that showed the effects of heavy rains that have drenched the area over the past few weeks. The muddy trail attracted constant fire from the Spaniards, but the Filipinos managed to deliver the guns safely to the village. A garrison of soldiers is stationed at Pineda and are used to relieve the men in the forward trenches. The road from Pineda to the front—a mile from the village—is welltraveled with soldiers moving back and forth—each man carrying a rifle—either on his way to the battle-line, or back to the village for a rest break. Frantic activity is everywhere. Busy Filipinos are hard at work making ammunition and repairing damaged rifles. A captured rapid-fire gun was being made ready to take to the front. Bags of grapeshot and cannon balls were stacked for loading on carts. They will be the ammunition for the big Cavite guns. I expressed a desire to visit the trenches, but General Noriel tried to discourage me. He said that it would be necessary to travel over exposed sections of the road, where I could be easily picked off by a Spanish sniper. I explained to the general that I would attempt the journey at my own risk. This seemed to satisfy him, and he also agreed to accompany me. We headed out in a drenching rainstorm toward the nearest line of trenches—a distance of about three-quarters of a mile. The flooded pathway was lined on each side with dripping mango and bamboo trees. Sporadic rifle fire could be heard coming from up the trail and to our left. Upon reaching our destination, I noticed a large barricade and a long trench—about four feet deep—running at right angles from it. A few native huts were clustered along the road, and about fifty soldiers were lounging behind the barricade or else under the eaves of the dwellings. Two of the Cavite cannons have safely arrived here. It had been reported that General Noriel had lost forty men while moving the guns to the front. The general denied the rumor but did admit that one of his men had been killed during the trip. The second line of trenches was about three hundred yards ahead, and reaching it was considered to be the most dangerous part of the journey. This section of the roadway was within easy range of Spanish guns—and, about every half-hour the Spaniards would fire either an artillery shell or a volley of Mauser bullets down the trail. I watched three Filipino soldiers hurry up the road to the front line trench. They were not fired on, so I decided to try my luck. I made a quick dash up the trail, and reached the trenches without drawing any enemy fire. The roadway here was also barricaded in a similar fashion as the first line of trenches. Almost hidden among the trees and facing the Spanish lines, I noticed an artillery for-

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tification. It was about twenty-five feet long, nine feet high, eight feet thick, and was constructed of bamboo poles and packed with stones and dirt. Openings had been left in the wall for the Cavite cannons that were to be set in place tommorow. By standing on top of the structure and looking through the screen of foliage, I could see the guns of Malate in the distance. The Spanish trenches were distinctly visible about 200 yards to the front. During the day, I observed only scattered rifle fire between the two forces. The Filipinos moved heedlessly from one section of trench to another. The trenches are halffilled with rainwater, and the soldiers frequently expose themselves to enemy fire as they walk outside the defenses from one breastwork or shelter to another. The constant presence of danger and a contempt for Spanish marksmanship have made them indifferent to the hazard. The majority of General Noriel’s troops are not drilled or disciplined, but they love to fight, and in that respect are effective soldiers. Each man fires his rifle whenever he feels like it and often when a Spaniard’s head is not even in sight. It seems apparent to me that the Spanish could easily storm the insurgent trenches— although it would cost them a great many lives. As it stands now, however, they are acting defensively. Their only object is to prevent any further advance by the Filipinos toward Manila. Malate is the last fortified Spanish position standing between the insurgents and Manila, and if it falls, General Noriel can mount his cannons in the fort and shell the city. I understand that the Spaniards have no heart in the fight, but their pride stands in the way of surrendering the city to Aguinaldo’s forces. Upon my return to Pineda, I was introduced to Manuel Rodiroso, a Spanish soldier who had deserted from Malate and joined the insurgent army. According to Rodiroso, there are many Spanish privates who are being so brutally treated by their superiors that they are continually looking for a chance to escape. He himself had been beaten by an officer and reduced in rank from corporal to private. He did not wish to fight against his fellow-soldiers, but did express an eagerness to kill as many Spanish officers as possible. Rodiroso also stated that the Spaniards expected that the Filipinos and Americans would soon be at war with each other. He also believed that Germany would help out the Spanish. The Germans had already sneaked two rapid-fire guns and about 300 bags of flour into Manila. The guns came packed in boxes of furniture. The flour was brought in a little at a time, so as not to arouse suspicion. The Spanish were certain, he said, that Germany would fly her flag in various sections of Manila and forbid the city to be attacked. He remarked that Colonel Fermin Guadenez has been placed in command of the Manila garrison. Guadenez has been in favor of fighting it out to the bitter end. He posted bulletins in the soldier’s barracks stating that a Spanish relief force—consisting of five battalions—is on its way to the Philippines. In answer to a question regarding rumors that German officers had been coming ashore in Manila, Rodiroso replied that the report was correct. German naval officers were frequently seen at Malate and also visiting the Spanish trenches. This was the third time I had heard this story, so I assume that it is true. July 25, 1898 Cavite is one of the busiest places in the world just now, as hundreds of soldiers continue to arrive from the United States. There has been a difficult struggle to find

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43

quarters for everyone and establish order out of chaos. Boatload after boatload come ashore carrying men and weapons, boxes of supplies, and cases of ammunition. A number of stowaways sneaked aboard the troop transports before they sailed from San Francisco. The boys are easy to spot—young kids, barely seventeen, wanting to play soldier. They are probably writing letters to the folks at home telling where they are and not to worry. Compared to when a handful of marines represented the American force of arms in Cavite, the present situation is very lively. Sentries can be seen everywhere, squads of men are busy hauling provisions, and regimental bands are practicing. The chow lines are continuous, but a system for serving meals with some sort of regularity is promised. Out in the bay on the sunken wreck of the Don Juan de Austria, Colonel James Smith erected six silhouette targets the height and shape of the average Spanish soldier. The distance is about 200 yards, and our troops have been sharpening their aim on the bull’seye. The Filipinos are curious. They crowd around and watch with wonder at the deliberate preparations for war that are going on and marvel at the size of most of the California and Oregon giants. The Americans are truly a ferocious looking lot, with their unshaven faces, rough brown uniforms and wild-west hats. Cavite is beginning to take on the appearance of a western mining camp. Near the landing wharf, the cooks are cutting up beef for the mess halls. Other men are lounging around smoking or trying out their Spanish phrase books on the natives. Across the way, a group of soldiers are making waterspouts to catch rainwater for drinking purposes. In front of the officer’s quarters is a small plaza and a line of large shade trees. Through the branches can be seen the wreckage-dotted waters of Bacoor Bay. A regimental band plays in the square during the afternoons to the delight of both the Americans and Filipinos. At the far corner of the plaza is General Anderson’s headquarters. Like all government buildings in Cavite, it is impressive. Farther down the row of trees is a gateway separating the officer dwellings from the enlisted men’s barracks and the hospital. On one side of the avenue is the massive wall of Fort St. Philip and a large gate separating the navy yard parade ground from the town of Cavite. Barrack buildings occupy the south side of the large open area, while the arsenal is located on the east front. To the north are the former Spanish army quarters and prison. On the west side of the parade ground are a number of Spanish dwellings and the church of Santa Domingo. It also marks the line dividing the navy yard from the business section of Cavite. Soldiers are not allowed beyond this point except when on liberty. There are usually fifty to one hundred men on leave at any one time, and nearly every restaurant has a number of rugged-looking Americans enjoying a meal, learning to speak Spanish, and flirting with the cute, brown-eyed Filipino girls. Regiments drill on the parade ground in the early morning and evening—weather permitting. Marching and other heavy work is suspended in the middle of the day because of the heat. But, although the weather has not been disagreeably warm, the medical department thought that the extra exertion of carrying a heavy rifle, while still not having been issued tropical uniforms, would cause too many men to collapse from heat stroke. More than a hundred tents have been stretched out on one side of the parade ground to dry and get rid of mildew. In this climate, it only takes a day or two for everything to become musty. Clothing and bedding must also be constantly aired.

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From his prison window in the sally port of Fort St. Philip, the captured governor of Guam, Juan Marina, can look out upon the navy yard. At one time, Marina was the governor of Cavite province, with his home and headquarters in the building now occupied by Emilio Aguinaldo. During a native uprising several years ago, this same governor had fifty-four Filipinos lined up against the walls of St. Philip and shot. When arrested, he was terrified at the possibility of being turned over to the insurgents and was eager to be held as a prisoner of the Americans. The Spanish privates brought here from Guam have been detailed to keep the compound neat and tidy—sweeping the walks, picking up trash, and carrying out other housecleaning tasks. They are always accompanied by a guard, but I doubt if they would ever try to escape, even if the opportunity presented itself. One regretable incident concerning the capture of Guam was the fact that the island’s only doctor, a popular Spanish surgeon, was brought to Cavite as a prisoner of war. There has been considerable indignation about the story ever since it came out in the world press.

The following interesting account of the blockade of Manila appeared in the August 1898 issue of The “Bounding Billow”: “During the blockade, the American ships were supplied with fresh meat from a refrigerating steamer chartered in Australia by the U.S. Government. Our sailors, therefore, fared much better than their sea-going counterparts of the foreign fleets anchored in the bay. The foreign ships were required to buy their provisions in Manila, but the city’s supply of food soon became scarce and expensive, and the foreign sailors were forced to live on tough water buffalo meat, at a cost of a dollar a pound. “As soon as our flag was raised on Cavite, the English ships gave it a national salute, while the Germans, French and Russians waited for instructions from their governments. Replying to the gun salute, Admiral Dewey hoisted an international signal with a British flag, telling the English to send a boat for fresh meat. This gesture angered the other foreign powers, who had to continue to subsist on buffalo, while the British sailors enjoyed mutton and beef.”

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The Philippines—Islands of Mystery After Admiral George Dewey’s decisive victory at Manila Bay, the U.S. War Department immediately realized that it knew next to nothing about the Philippine Islands, and the American public knew even less. A search for information quickly became a top priority. The Henry W. Peabody Company of Boston had been trading in Asian markets for a number of years and, upon request, sent a letter to General Wesley Merritt in San Francisco, detailing the problems that an American expeditionary force would be facing fighting an enemy eight-thousand miles from home. June 4, 1898 Sir: We are pleased to respond to the request of the honorable Secretary of War in submitting to you some information regarding the Philippine Islands. Our close business relations there during the past eight years, enable us to supply knowledge that may be useful—at least in confirming what you may find from other sources: Climate—The southeast monsoon sets in during April. Rains are frequent in the afternoon during May, and become heavier in June. July is generally the rainiest month of the year—there being a downpour of rain from ten to twelve days at a time, so that the country is practically under water. During August the rains become more spasmodic—although there are usually many heavy rainstorms. The southeast monsoons end in September, and with October we have the northeast monsoon—with almost uniform clear, dry weather until April when the cycle starts over again. The rainy season is generally considered as healthy a season as any, since, coming after a long, hot dry period, it washes the country and air clear of all impurities. Practically the only danger from this season is exposure to the weather, with constant chills and colds. Location—The city of Manila is situated on low, swampy land at the mouth of the Pasig River. The surrounding countryside—extending to the foothills, a distance of from twenty to twenty-five miles—is of the same swampy terrain and is chiefly used for the

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cultivation of rice. Consequently, during the rainy season, the countryside inland from Manila is practically impassable—especially for troops of any kind. There are few roads, and these are narrow and poorly constructed. In fact, it would be very difficult, during this rainy period, for soldiers to operate beyond the city limits. Manila is built on both banks of the Pasig, and is intersected in every direction by a network of creeks and canals. Most of these waterways are only from ten to twenty feet wide. They can be easily spanned by portable bridges, but very difficult to ford, as they all have a soft and muddy bottom. Manila has two main bridges crossing the Pasig, and a couple of smaller ones. Natives—Our experience with the native population is that they have no love for the Spaniards, and, while they will fight under Spanish rule, with the utmost valor, as long as they believe the Spanish are invincible, once they see that the Spaniards are to be defeated, the Filipinos will turn against their Spanish officers and join the opposing forces. This has happened a few times in the recent past, and, in my opinion, would be the case if the Spanish were attacked by American forces. It may be of interest for you to know that, in all the current turmoil in Manila, not one English-speaking person in the islands has been interfered with by the natives. On the contrary, they have been trying hard to win the sympathy of the English-speaking people, and it seems reasonable to suppose that they would help the American troops. And, once the Spaniards are conquered, we should have no trouble bringing the natives into submission. Spanish forces—Spain has apparently sent fifty-thousand soldiers to the Philippines, but of these, only one-half are now fit for service—the rest having died or been invalided back to Spain. Of these twenty-five thousand now in the islands, half of them are distributed in small detachments at various ports throughout the archipelago. A month ago, it was supposed that there were eight thousand Spanish troops in Manila, and about four thousand native soldiers—making a total fighting force of at least twelve thousand, which might be added to by volunteers. It is practically impossible for their troops in the southern islands to return to Manila, as there is no communication except by water. The Spanish soldiers stationed at various posts on the island of Luzon will find it difficult to return to Manila because of a lack of roads. Defenses—In regards to the Spanish principal fortifications at Manila, the Spaniards have constructed a series of three-story blockhouses behind the city—forming a chain, and covering a distance of about eight miles. Fifteen of these small forts have been built and are occupied by fifty to a hundred soldiers each. My recollection of the fortifications and defenses of the town leads me to believe that the best approach to capture the city would be to land troops on the beach just above Malate, which is about a mile and a half south of Manila. There are no fortifications to speak of at this point, and there is good ground to form regiments for an advance on the city. Health—The chief danger to our troops, at this season of the year, would be the constant exposure to the weather. The Spaniards endeavor to avoid camping on the ground as much as possible. While in Manila, their soldiers live in barracks, and, when away from the city, they try to spend the night in a village where they can be quartered in the native huts. At times, when this is impossible, the troops wrap themselves in heavy blankets, and sleep on the ground. As far as sickness is concerned, yellow fever and cholera are unknown in the islands. There is smallpox, but it is not epidemic. The greatest danger is from dysentery, which is very easily contracted if a person is allowed to get chilled. My own experience showed that the best protection from illness during the rainy season was wearing a woolen band around the abdomen—commonly known as a “cholera

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belt.” This proved very effective in preventing the dangerous chills to the stomach. To get thoroughly wet during a heavy rain, and then sleep on the ground without proper protection or warmth, is sure to bring on a chill, and dysentery quickly follows. This continual exposure to the weather would be the chief danger to our troops. But, once Manila is ours, there would be ample lodging for soldiers in the Spanish barracks or the large hemp and sugar warehouses, which now must be more or less vacant due to Admiral Dewey’s blockade. /s/ Charles L. Smith

9

The Night Battle of 31 July: John T. McCutcheon’s Account With the city of Manila besieged by American land forces and Admiral Dewey’s fleet with a stranglehold on the bay, it was only a matter of time before both sides would test each other’s strength and fighting spirit. The tense situation came to a head on the night of July 31, 1898, and John T. McCutcheon was there to describe the action in a story to the Chicago Record. August 5, 1898 The night of the 31st of July was the baptism of fire for the American soldiers—wet to the skin by torrents of rain and sloshing around in trenches filled with a thick muddy soup. Early Friday morning, July 29, General Francis Greene ordered two battalions of the First Colorado Volunteer Infantry to occupy the trench nearest Malate. It had been occupied by the insurgents until they agreed to abandon it to the Americans. The earthwork was about 350 yards from the forward line of Spanish defenses. Soon after the Colorado troops moved into the trench, Lieutenant Colonel Henry McCoy decided to have his men build another trench closer to the enemy fortifications. About midnight, a Colorado detachment advanced about 150 yards, and working as silently as possible, dug a new trench and embankment stretching from the Manila road to the bay. When daylight arrived, the Spaniards were surprised to see a formidable breastwork— nearly seven feet high—extending completely across their front and barely 200 yards away. At 9 A.M., the Colorado battalions were relieved by the First Nebraska Volunteer Infantry. While the transfer was taking place, one of the Colorado soldiers, William Sterling, was shot in the arm by a Spanish sniper. He was the first army casualty due to enemy action in the Philippine war.

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The Nebraska troops were a trigger-happy bunch and began firing at anything that moved in the vicinity of the Spanish lines. The Spaniards answered with showers of Mauser bullets. This confrontation was in direct violation of General Wesley Merritt’s orders. Both Merritt and Admiral Dewey did not want any offensive action to be taken until they were ready to demand the surrender of Manila. But it was evident that, with the two opposing forces only a short distance apart, the temptation to shoot at a good target was hard to resist. At dark, the Spaniards began firing sporadic volleys—probably hoping to prevent any further advance of the American lines. The Nebraskans did not return the fire, but let the enemy waste their ammunition. Early Sunday morning, the 31st of July, Companies A, C, H, I, and K of the Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, plus four guns of the Utah Artillery, replaced the Nebraska regiment. Companies E and D, under Major Everhart Bierer, took a reserve position in a grove of trees near the beach, and 200 yards behind the breastworks. Assistant surgeons John W. Coffin and Louis P. McCormick set up their surgical tents only fifty yards beyond. The site selection was unfortunate, as its location was directly in the line of enemy fire. Company B was stationed 600 yards to the rear of the American line, and a short distance back was the First Platoon of the Third U.S. Artillery, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Maurice Krayenbuhl. The Second Platoon, under Lieutenant Kessler, was stationed on the road leading to Pasay. Both platoons were serving as infantry. Throughout the day, Spanish snipers kept up a desultory fire, trying to pick off any American who showed himself. These attacks were responded to by Pennsylvania sharpshooters firing from loopholes in the breastworks. Late in the afternoon, I visited the front line and observed the Pennsylvania and Utah troops busily working on shelters to protect themselves from the rain. Several riflemen were resting against the earthworks, occasionally answering the sharp snap of the Mausers. Rain had been falling in sudden, drenching showers, and pools of muddy water were standing in depressions near the protective embankment. Midway between the road to Manila and the beach is the old, deserted Capuchin monastery. The breastworks intersect the far end of the building, thereby including the structure within the American lines. The monastery has been severely damaged by artillery fire and riddled by bullets. It is not safe to climb above the ground floor. The Spaniards send a shell into it every now and then to prevent our sharpshooters from using the building to fire into the Spanish lines from the second story and roof. To the right of the monastery, two Utah guns are dug in behind protective emplacements. The other two are positioned on the left side of the building toward the beach. In late evening, it started to rain heavily. Major Harry Cuthbertson established five sentry outposts about fifty yards closer to the Spanish lines. At dark, Company K, with shovels, was sent outside the breastworks to strengthen the embankment. About this time, enemy firing was heard and was answered by our outposts. Company K was told to stop work. When the men returned to the safety of the breastworks, they were ordered to grab their rifles, check on the outposts, and reconnoiter the terrain between the American and Spanish lines. In the pouring rain and pitch-blackness, several soldiers of Company K stumbled upon

50 9.1

America at War American, Spanish, and Filipino Trenches South of Manila, July 30, 1898

a group of Spaniards who fired on the Americans from about twenty-five yards, wounding three men. The troops of Company K soon began returning to the breastworks in small, disorganized bands, apparently confused by their sudden encounter with the enemy. A few minutes later, a general alarm was raised when one of the returning soldiers reported that the Spanish were moving through the swamps on the right, attempting to flank our position from that direction. The enemy’s strength was unknown, but the Americans opened up a hot, incessant artillery and rifle barrage against the Spanish defenses.

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By this time, gunfire from the two opposing trenches sounded like the rapid roll of a drum, with no pause or the slightest cessation. Spanish machine guns were aimed like fire hoses—spraying bullets along the entire length of the American breastworks—while their artillery sent shells screaming across the beach and down the roadway to Manila. Realizing that his situation was desperate, Cuthbertson sent word to Major Bierer to take the reserve companies and hurry to the right flank and repel the Spaniards. In order to reach the location, however, the reserves were compelled to cross a level field completely exposed to the sweeping storm of Mauser bullets that zipped over the top of the breastworks and into the open clearing beyond. As Bierer led his troops in a mad dash across the open terrain, men began dropping on all sides, spotting the field with dead and wounded. Ironically, when the the two companies of reserves arrived at their destination, they learned that the Spaniards had already withdrawn to the safety of their own trenches. But, although the enemy threat seemed to have past, another danger stealthily began to make its presence felt. The Americans were running low on ammunition. Each soldier had been alloted only fifty rounds, and many of the men had already fired their last bullet. Company captains sent couriers two miles back to Camp Dewey for more ammunition, exposing the runners to random Mauser and artillery fire. Reinforcements were also needed to replace front line casualties. In the rainy darkness, it was impossible to identify an American from a Spaniard at a distance of ten yards. The nightmarish thought of the enemy infiltrating behind our entrenchments was on everyone’s mind. As the gun battle continued with no end in sight, Lieutenant Colonel Krayenbuhl received permission to strengthen the breastworks with his artillery-infantry. He sent word to Lieutenant Kessler to come on with his platoon. Krayenbuhl and Kessler led their men through a storm of rain and bullets, reaching the embankment just in time to see some of the Pennsylvania troops fixing bayonets preparatory to making a last stand. Other men were shooting randomly—without order or system—at Spanish gun flashes in the distance. The entire breastwork was in turmoil and confusion. Someone had to take charge. Krayenbuhl drew his revolver, jumped up on the parapet, fired his gun in the air to get attention, and shouted that he would shoot any man who fired a rifle without orders. His commanding voice settled the men down. Firing instructions were issued for deliberate volleys, which were more effective and also saved ammunition. In an attempt to restore confidence in the troops, Sergeant John McIlrath climbed on top the breastworks to show what poor shots the Spanish were. Moments later, he tumbled down the embankment with a bullet through the brain. Meanwhile, back at Camp Dewey, Captain James O’Hara of the Third U.S. Artillery was just drifting off to sleep when he heard heavy gunfire in the distance. Judging by the sustained shooting, he realized that Krayenbuhl might be in trouble. O’Hara quickly awakened Captain Hobbs and a bugler. He gave hurried instructions to Hobbs to follow him with Battery H at the sound of the bugle. O’Hara and the bugler then dashed out into the rain. They had only ran a few hundred feet, when they encountered an excited, out of breath courier. The messenger gasped out his story, explaining the serious situation at the breastworks, and the desperate need for ammunition and reinforcements. The bugler sounded the alarm. Hobbs and 175 men, with extra belts of ammunition, raced toward the frontline entrenchment. On rushed O’Hara. Whenever he came upon a

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group of men heading to Camp Dewey, the bugler sounded “attack” and they fell in behind O’Hara. It was a regular “Sheridan’s Ride” as the shrill call of the bugle turned retreat into a forward advance. Hobbs and his men were only a short distance behind O’Hara as Mauser bullets cut a deadly path down the muddy, mango-lined road. One bullet ripped through Hobbs’ thigh, but he never noticed the wound until the following morning. Loud cheering erupted from the throats of the Pennsylvania boys when O’Hara and Battery H reached the breastworks. A new feeling of confidence spread through the men, and it would have taken only a word to send every soldier clambering over the embankment, yelling like Indians, in a wild stampede toward the enemy. It was a moment that stirs up a man’s patriotism and sends blood racing through his veins. By this time, all of Camp Dewey had been roused. Bugles were blowing assembly, and hundreds of sleepy men were hurriedly pulling on soggy boots and wringing wet uniforms. A courier staggered up to General Greene’s headquarters and excitedly reported that the battle was lost, ammunition was gone, and the Utah Battery had been wiped out. General Greene calmed the hysterical man down and learned more details about the situation at the breastworks. He then issued orders for the First California Volunteer Infantry, commanded by Colonel James Smith, to reinforce the American front line. Smith sent his First Battalion to strengthen the breastworks. The Second Battalion was ordered to proceed to the former insurgent trench and wait in reserve. The Third Battalion would remain at Camp Dewey—ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Word was also sent to Admiral Dewey’s fleet, lying a mile offshore, to stand by for a signal to open fire on Fort Malate. Eight horsedrawn carts, loaded with ammunition, were hastily dispatched to the front. The slow trip, through rain and mud, was jam-packed with danger. Private J. F. Finley, of the First Colorado Infantry, was one of the drivers. Upon reaching the breastworks, he quickly unloaded the ammunition boxes, then placing several wounded soldiers in his cart, he returned safely to Camp Dewey. The story was different with the First Battalion of California Infantry. It was being hit hard on the bullet-swept road to Manila. The men were forced to abandon the roadway and plunge into the surrounding rice fields. Waist-deep in muddy water, the troops pushed forward through drenching torrents of rain. Mauser bullets splattered the water and clipped the leaves in the bamboo jungle that bordered the fields. Enemy shells and bullets splintered the air without let up—singing through the rain, and ripping furrows in the swamp grasses. When the Mauser fire became too hot, the California boys crawled ahead on their hands and knees. When Company A of the California First Battalion stumbled into the old insurgent trench, the officers became confused as to the exact location of the American lines. The troops fired three volleys into the breastworks before learning of their mistake. Colonel Smith, coated with mud and wearing a poncho over his nightshirt, was the busiest man at the breastworks as he took charge of the California battalion as it arrived at the embankment. Smith posted Company A to the far left of the line at the beach. The other companies, plus a battery of the Third U.S. Artillery, were stationed on the right. With their defenses now strengthened by additional manpower, the Americans prepared for more enemy attacks, but the Spaniards were ready to call it a night. Firing became desultory—finally fading to an occasional sputter of musketry. About 3 A.M., a medical detachment was sent out to begin the sad duty of searching in the swampy grasses for the dead and wounded. In the early light of morning, they

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carried, on bamboo litters, the wet, mud-covered remains of those gallant men who had fallen victim to Spanish rifle and artillery fire. Rubber ponchos concealed their faces, but the white, stiffened hands and crimson stains on the brown uniforms tragically revealed that these were not wounded soldiers being borne solemnly through the rain and down the muddy road to Camp Dewey. At the brigade hospital, surgeons, with little medical equipment and only candles for light, moved silently among the wounded. Some of the men, with blood-soaked bandages and faces despondent and strained, gazed vacantly into space. Others were cheerful and requested that their names not be sent home, as they did not want their mothers or wives to worry. There is a collective feeling here that the night battle was absolutely unnecessary, and some criticism was directed at General Greene for advancing his troops to a position where it would be almost impossible to prevent an exchange of gunfire. Admiral Dewey had hoped that Manila could be induced to surrender without our forces losing a man, and he counseled that every precaution be taken by the army to prevent a premature engagement. The Americans had nothing to gain strategically in the Sunday night clash. And, it was so dark and rainy during the battle that not a Spaniard was actually seen. It has even been suggested that the warning of a flank attack was a false alarm. But the most disturbing rumor is the insinuation that the move from the old insurgent trench to within 200 yards of the enemy was the idea of an ambitious officer who wanted to make a name for himself before giving the city of Manila a chance to capitulate.

10

The Utah Artillery at the Battle of Manila: Evaristo de Montalvo’s Story In January 1896 the Utah territory became the 45th state admitted to the Union, with Heber M. Wells elected as its first governor. Ironically, only two years later, she was ordered to send her young men off to war. The fledgling state’s quota was 500 men, with 343 designated for lightartillery service. The reason for the U.S. Army’s emphasis on artillery was due to the fact that many National Guard units were deficient in this branch of service. The guns of most artillery batteries consisted of obsolete, muzzleloading cannons that had been divided among the states at the close of the Civil War. Utah was one of the few states that had been issued modern artillery. During the early organization of the guard, it had been provided with 3.2-inch breech-loading artillery pieces together with limbers and caissons. As soon as the United States declared war against Spain on April 25, 1898, the Utah National Guard was directed to prepare two artillery batteries for field duty. On May 3 the new recruits for the Utah Artillery assembled at Camp Kent, Utah, for intensive training. Captain Richard W. Young was appointed commanding officer of Battery A. The other officers of the battery were First Lieutenant George W. Gibbs and Second Lieutenants Ray C. Naylor and William C. Webb. Captain Frank A. Grant commanded Battery B. First Lieutenant Edgar A. Wedgewood and Second Lieutenants John F. Critchlow and Orrin R. Grow were also assigned to the battery. Evaristo de Montalvo was born in Cuba to a family of prominent sugar plantation owners. He attended private schools in New York City for his early education and became an American citizen upon entering Princeton University in 1893. After graduating in 1897 Evaristo began working as a chemist and gold assayer for the de Lamar Gold Mines at Mercur, Utah.

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The memoirs of Evaristo de Montalvo and his service with the Utah Artillery in the Philippines vividly describe his army life as a new recruit and culminate with the Battle of Manila. “The President had called for a hundred thousand volunteers. I weighed the pros and cons of enlisting, but the big day came at last when the recruiting officer came to town. Thirty of us signed up, and I was one of the only eight men that passed the examination. “There was a hot time in old Mercur the night before we left for camp—big dinner and dance. Early the next morning, escorted by a brass band, we were marched to the railway station. We were told to take nothing with us but the clothes we were wearing and a blanket. Everything else would be supplied. “On the way to the station, every shopkeeper gave us something in the way of a present. The restaurants and saloons contributed the most desirable items. Amid cheers and tears we boarded the railway cars. They had been covered with flowers and patriotic banners. “We arrived at Camp Kent at nightfall. The barracks were swarming with all kinds of men, including hoboes, cowboys and miners. I shall never forget my first army meal the next morning. We marched to the mess hall and sat down to a breakfast consisting of two-inch square chunks of fried bacon, black coffee and bread. “My friend, Levy Lanthier, looked at me and said, ‘Monte, damn me if I don’t think we made a mistake and joined a prison work gang!’ We did not realize it at that moment, but the time would come when we would have given anything for a piece of that bacon and bread. “After our tents were pitched, the camp began to look more military. We had gun drill and target practice every day, and kind ladies from Salt Lake City kept us well supplied with good things to eat. But, since our uniforms had not arrived, we looked more like Coxey’s army than Batteries A and B of the Utah Artillery. Our only clothing was what we had on our backs, so we quickly became a dirty, scraggly bunch of volunteers. Large, admiring crowds came out to visit, but I kept out of sight. I was afraid that some of my friends from the city might recognize me. “The weather was clear and, little by little, we accustomed ourselves to army life. We had been in camp about ten days when uniforms and equipment arrived. We now looked more like soldiers and were eager to get in the fight. Instead of the complaint, ‘Where are our uniforms?’ The cry, ‘When do we go to Frisco?’ was on everybody’s lips.” Early on the morning of May 20, the Utah Artillery was ordered to pack up and prepare to move out. Evaristo de Montalvo continued: “We marched to the sound of martial music through the streets of Salt Lake City. At the railway station, the ladies of the Red Cross handed each man a food package as he stepped aboard the flower decorated train. The scene was patriotic, but it was a ‘humid’ goodbye for mothers, sisters, girlfriends and wives who had gathered to see their men off to war. Many of the women crowded up to the train win-

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dows, asking for a keepsake, or to see the ‘Cuban’ (that was me). Some were surprised that I looked very much like everybody else. “I shall never forget Mrs. Winkler. Old and frail, she clung to her son Joseph’s arm all the way to the station. The rough crowd, surging and pushing, could not shake her off. Joe Winkler swallowed hard and blinked a little, but kept looking straight ahead. “The trip to San Francisco was rather uneventful, although throngs of well wishers jammed the stations along the route. Arriving at Frisco, we were met by more crowds of people, and the Red Cross girls were also on hand with their gastronomical delights.” The Utah Artillery batteries were sent to nearby Camp Merritt for additional training. Evaristo remarked: “Life at Camp Merritt was about the same as Camp Kent, except that we were better dressed and better fed. We were permitted to go to town quite often and had a great time at the theaters and music halls. The populace simply gave us the keys to the city. We paid no fare on car lines, and the soldiers were feted wherever they went.” At daybreak on June 14 the Utah Artillery batteries broke camp and marched to the embarcation wharf. Evaristo de Montalvo narrated: “The Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry marched with us to the docks. The troopship flotilla consisted of four transports—the China, Colon, Senator, and Zealandia. One platoon of Battery B, under Lieutenant Grow, was assigned to the Zealandia and another went aboard the China. The men of Battery A were all on the Colon. “I was aboard the Zealandia. We mounted our pieces forward and aft in case we had to repel an attack by sea. As soon as all troops were aboard their ships, our convoy pulled out into mid-stream. Tugboats by the score and large excursion vessels swarmed around us. Their shipboard bands played patriotic music, while men cheered and women waved their handkerchiefs. The next morning, and like Columbus, we sailed into the unknown. “The sea was high for a couple of days, and a cold rain poured unmercifully down on us. The cooking facilities were wretched. But, worse yet, the chow was ‘pickled mare’ (canned horsemeat) and old rotted potatoes. The ship’s cook boiled the horsemeat and potatoes together in a large iron pot. “We lined up in the rain with our tin plates to receive this gourmet ration. The rain and strong wind would often blow the greasy concoction out of a man’s plate and into the next person’s face. Nobody came back for second helpings. “Soldiers who were seasick fought for positions along the ship’s rail or else rolled themselves up in blankets and hugged the steam pipes for support. Many men ate nothing for two days. “Our sleeping quarters were down in the hold where we were packed in like sardines. The hold was so crowded that it was difficult to move about without stepping on another soldier or something else. “The weather cleared in a few days, and most of the boys began sleeping topside. The living spaces below decks had been made untenable from the stench

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of sickness. We enjoyed a shower—or rather a fire hose bath—every morning when the sailors washed down the main deck. “We arrived at Honolulu on 23 June. What a welcome change! It was like stepping from hell into paradise. It was a beautiful day—bright and cool, with music everywhere. The open-hearted hospitality of the local people was incredible. After disembarking, we were marched to the American Yacht Club, where we enjoyed a refreshing swim and received our first mail from home. We were also given writing paper and pens to answer the letters. “The following day, Judge Kinney, a former resident of Salt Lake City, arranged for the men of the Utah Artillery to take a train ride to visit a large sugar plantation. Free cigars and cool drinks were served as the train lumbered past rice fields and quaint little towns. A cool breeze floated through the open windows, as we sat back, sipped pineapple cocktails, puffed on our ‘perfectos,’ and dreamed of home. “A feeling of sadness, however, came over me when we reached the plantation. Suddenly, the smell of boiling sugar juice brought my thoughts back to Cuba. I guess I was envious as I looked over the beautiful Hawaiian fields of waving cane, the loaded freight cars, and the rumbling sound of the crushers that often lulled my father asleep. “But now, under Spanish rule, the Cuban canes do not wave their tufts in the gentle breeze. The land is only a blackened, smoking expanse, stretching across the landscape, as leaping flames are driven on and on by the wind. My mind still pictures the line of burned empty freight cars, joined together like a grotesque, ugly centipede. And the sugar mill, quiet like the grave, as the encroaching rust, like hungry maggots, eat the remains with voracious appetites. As I daydreamed, my memories of the former ‘good life’ in Cuba was making me very depressed. I was glad when we boarded the train to leave. “The next morning, we visited the palace gardens where a delicious lunch was served, and Hawaiian soldiers gave a dress parade in our honor. Meanwhile, a military band, seated in a raised rotunda, played the music of the times as pretty girls, dressed in red, white and blue, flitted about the lawn. As I sat in the shade of an old mango tree and captured the relaxing scene in my mind, a faint indescribable perfume filled the air—a combination of flowers and fruit. “We were allowed to wander through the palace at will, and, as I looked out from the broad veranda to the crowd below, the band began to play ‘La Czarine.’ Once again I was mentally transported to Cuba. This time it was the Cafe Chinois—and Mathilde. “The sharp notes of a bugle sounding assembly suddenly interrupted my daydreaming. Companies were quickly formed, and we marched back to the Zealandia to continue our voyage to the Philippines. “In order to avoid the monotony at sea, I started a Spanish language class for officers. This was a welcome diversion for me, as there was no place to read or write comfortably in the cramped enlisted men’s quarters. “On the Fourth of July, we peacefully conquered Wake Island, and planted

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the Stars and Stripes on the uninhabited atoll. A few days later, we had target practice. It was the first time that our pieces were fired from shipboard. “We pulled into Guam on 9 July and, on the 17th, steamed past Corregidor and into Manila Bay. From the deck of the Zealandia, I could see the pitiful, sunken wrecks of the Spanish fleet. Anchored nearby rested the victorious American squadron, trim and dapper, without a visible scratch to be seen. “At this time, the Filipinos had Manila under siege. I could hear the volleys of musketry and the boom of artillery as the Spaniards tried to drive them from their entrenchments. “Meanwhile, our platoon waited impatiently for orders to disembark, and that is when my knowledge of the Spanish language made me somewhat of a celebrity. Suddenly I was in great demand as an interpreter and consequently made several trips to Cavite. I interrogated a number of Spanish prisoners, including the governor of Guam. “Finally, after sweating out three days and nights of frustration, we boarded several cascos and headed a mile or so from Manila to Camp Dewey. Most of the men had not stepped foot on dry land for more than a month, so their spirits were high. This was despite the fact that we were forced to unload the artillery pieces by sheer manpower and through five feet of water. “My first sight of Camp Dewey was pretty impressive—a broad expanse of white canvas as far as the eye could see. Campfires were burning bright, and an air of enthusiasm permeated the camp. We quickly pitched our tents and settled down for an indefinite period. “However, life at Camp Dewey was no picnic. It rained torrents practically every day. We were almost washed out of our tents and soon forgot what it was like to be dry. The stormy weather prevented ships in the harbor from landing provisions, so the army was on quarter-rations most of the time. Wood also was scarce, and we were not allowed to cut down trees. The Filipinos even objected to our picking up dead branches that were lying about. There was many a confrontation about this order, and we never did learn the reason. “Owing to my knowledge of Spanish, I was asked to go along on several scouting missions to the front lines. This was rather ticklish business, as the Filipino and Spanish pickets were continually exchanging shots: Any little movement in the brush would bring a shower of Mauser bullets flying in our direction. “On one occasion—while with a scouting party—we sneaked into a deserted house about fifty yards from the Spanish earthworks. From this location, we were not only able to observe enemy movement in the trenches, but also activity going on behind the lines. I often thought that if the Spaniards had discovered us so close to their defenses, they could have created havoc with the American Army. Unknown to the enemy was the fact that our party included Generals Arthur MacArthur and Francis Greene, their aides, and several other ‘muckymucks.’ “Some of these missions were downright nerve-racking. I will always remem-

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ber the day when Lieutenant John Vogler and I became separated from a scouting patrol while hacking our way through the thick underbrush surrounding the city of Manila. We wandered around until the sharp cracks of Mausers and the zing of bullets zipping past our ears warned us that we were near the Spanish pickets. We hurriedly scrambled through the thickets and luckily made it back to our lines without being hit. “A few days later, we received orders to move two pieces each from Battery A and Battery B to the front lines. The roadway was a thick quagmire of mud, so you can imagine the difficulty in hauling artillery under these conditions. I often wish that I had a picture of us struggling in pouring rain; covered with thick, black muck from head to foot; straining and heaving at the slippery ropes; and with the wheels sunk up to the hubs. But, as if fighting the weather was not bad enough, we were bringing the guns up to the front under heavy enemy fire. “It was exhausting and dangerous work, but we finally reached the front without losing a man. The trenches were a sea of mud. It rained incessantly. We covered the guns with canvas, but water even trickled through the tarpaulin. “The following day, gunfire was light, with the exception of the two picket lines, which kept snapping at each other all the time. The Spanish monastery on our right had been heavily shelled and looked like a sieve. Sighting through the shell holes, we had a good view of the enemy’s movements, and our snipers were having excellent luck picking off the Spaniards. “Using binoculars, I noticed that the Spanish position was thoroughly fortified by a series of deep sandbag entrenchments. Our earthworks, on the other hand, were inferior and inadequate. They had been hurriedly constructed of dirt only, and the heavy rains kept washing them away. “We were supported on the right and left by the Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. After dark, they established outposts about 50 yards to the front. The evening was relatively quiet. All we could hear was the sound of the ocean’s surf to our left, a chorus of croaking frogs on the right, and the drip, drip, drip of the never-ceasing rain. Lieutenant Grow stationed two men on guard at each piece, and the rest of us rolled up in our wet, clammy blankets and tried to get some sleep. “About ten o’clock, we were awakened by sharp Mauser fire to the right. It only lasted for about a minute—just long enough for our right flank to be strengthened at the expense of the left. This was what the Spaniards had hoped would happen. “After the gunfire ceased, we tried to go back to sleep, although some of us put on our shoes and leggings first. But then, an hour later, heavy Spanish volley fire erupted along the entire front. Soldiers, manning the outposts, hurried back to our lines. They reported that Spanish infantry was advancing. Sad to say, however, the Tenth Pennsylvania began to answer the enemy guns before all their pickets had returned, and several of the men were caught in the cross fire. “The night was dark as pitch. Pandemonium was raging everywhere. With

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the confusion of noise on all sides, it sounded like the Spaniards were almost to our trenches. Lieutenant Grow shouted, ‘Prepare for action!’ and we all began firing our revolvers into the blackness. “Suddenly, the Spanish artillery opened up. Shells screamed overhead and exploded. The rapid series of blasts were deafening. Our gunners dashed to their artillery positions and anxiously waited for orders. Lieutenant Grow hollered above the tumult, ‘Commence firing!’ and two pieces angrily answered the Spaniards. The Pennsylvania boys cheered as the flash of our exploding shrapnel shells illuminated the advancing troops. The enemy soldiers were mowed down by the riflemen, and the Spaniards hurriedly retreated back to the safety of their own lines. “The Spanish artillery quickly retaliated and concentrated on our position. Shells began bursting above us. One struck the ammunition magazine, but luckily did not explode. Many of the enemy shots were high, and the shells crashed to the rear of the trenches. One projectile, that exploded directly behind us, covered our gun crews with mud and wounded two men. George Hudson was burned on his back from hot shrapnel, and Joseph Winkler was also hit by a sliver of steel. “The night was too dark to use gun sights, but our battery sergeant, Robert Stewart, was able to get accurate hits by watching the muzzle flash of the Spanish artillery. With Mauser bullets raining down on our position like a hail storm, it was a miracle that Stewart was not killed. “We fired our field pieces until they became so hot that Lieutenant Grow ordered us to cease firing. Our situation now was critical. We needed water to pour over the barrels. This meant running a few hundred yards to the rear to the nearest well—and without being hit by enemy bullets or shrapnel. While we were discussing what to do next, Hudson grabbed a pail and took off like the Devil was after him. I never expected to see him again, but a few minutes later he returned safely with a bucket of water. “It didn’t take long for the barrels to cool down, and the artillery duel continued. We silenced two Spanish guns, but a large cannon kept sending moaning shells in our direction. A sandbag barricade we had erected caved in around one of the field pieces. Everyone immediately started to dig, but the gun was sinking deeper and deeper into the mud. George Hudson, despite his painful wound, came to the rescue. He literally picked the piece up in his hands and set it in position. “As the fighting raged hot and heavy, Lieutenant Grow had me deliver messages to other units and obtain range and target information. Sergeant Louis Fehr, captain of our battery on the left, acted more like a baseball umpire than a battery commander. Whenever one of his shells struck home, he would slap his gunners on the back and shout above the bedlam of noise, ‘Strike one!’ If a shell fell over or short, the cry would be; ‘Wild pitch!’ “Harry Snyder was the battery’s ammunition carrier and comedian. When Fehr called for shrapnel, Snyder would ask for ‘birdseed,’ and he termed the

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percussions ‘pills.’ Harry dubbed the Spanish six-inch shells ‘fast mail,’ a most appropriate term, as the projectiles made the sound of an express train as they roared overhead. “On one of my fast runs to the Tenth Pennsylvania lines, I learned that the regiment was about out of ammunition. Their volleys rapidly decreased in volume. I noticed soldiers looking at their empty cartridge belts and cursing their luck. Lieutenant Oliver Scott, Battalion Adjutant, hurried over to Major Harry Cuthbertson and announced with alarm that the regiment was about out of ammunition. The major was not fazed one bit, and sharply replied, ‘I know it! But you have bayonets!’ “As gunfire from the Pennsylvania volunteers slackened, the Spanish volleys increased. I hurried back to my battery just as the enemy launched another infantry assault on our lines. Lieutenant Grow ordered Sergeants Fehr and Snyder to open fire with shrapnel shells set at zero. This had the same effect as canister shot—cutting the Spaniards down like a hot scythe. “The enemy attack was stopped—but only temporarily. They would be back. But now, we were the ones short of ammunition. A sickening thought crossed my mind, as I tried to visualize defending our battery with six-shooters. “Keeping up sporadic firing for the next two hours, Lieutenant Grow successfully tricked the Spaniards into believing that we had plenty of shells on hand. By this time, however, we were exhausted and began praying for reinforcements. “Suddenly we heard boisterous shouts and cheering coming from behind the lines. A battalion of the First California Volunteer Infantry had arrived, and with them were wagons carrying rifle ammunition and artillery shells. The battalion was commanded by Colonel James Smith. “In the darkness, one California company became confused and moved into the second line of trenches directly behind us and began shooting. We saved our lives by falling face down in the mud and screaming for them to cease firing. The California boys quickly discovered their mistake and moved forward to the front line entrenchments. “It had been a ticklish job getting reinforcements to us. Colonel Smith said that, besides bombarding the open fields directly in front of our lines, the Spaniards also heavily shelled the landing beaches and the main road to Manila. The California battalion lost several men while coming to our aid. “We tried to strengthen our defenses, but they still seemed inadequate. Then, shortly before daybreak, the Spaniards zeroed in on us. Enemy shells began kicking up dirt on all sides. Flying shrapnel clipped the scope off one of our pieces, and the other gun was also nicked. With all that steel whizzing about, it was a wonder that any of us were not killed or wounded. “I wish you could have seen me the following morning—covered with mud from head to foot, sopping wet, clothes in rags, and my hands and face black with powder smoke. I had been sweating heavily during the battle, but now I was shivering from the cold rain and sharp wind.

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“For nearly two weeks, the Spaniards shelled us night after night, but did little damage. I shall never forget the evening when a number of wounded were brought to the first-aid station adjacent to our magazine area. Several of the soldiers were terribly injured—one man almost cut in half. Captain John Murphy, of the Fourteenth Infantry, remarked in disgust that a shortage of sandbags has made the trenches ‘death traps.’ “On the morning of 13 August, the Utah Artillery received orders to move all ten pieces to special trenches that were being dug for us. The defenses for Battery B’s two rapid-fire pieces, however, were still not finished when we arrived. After hauling the heavy guns through the most tenacious muck imaginable, we still had a few hours of backbreaking work ahead of us, filling sandbags and placing the sacks in position. The job had to be finished by 10 P.M. “We struggled in mud up to our knees until ready to drop. I remember the last sandbag I carried, weighing about 130 pounds, made me wobble and fall. The sack fell on my legs, pinning me down. It took four men to pick the wet, slippery sandbag off my body. “Evidently the Spaniards had been watching us through their glasses and saw us attempting to fortify our position. All of a sudden, we came under shell fire. This was scary, as our infantry support had not yet arrived. Fortunately a Filipino company, noticing our predicament, began shooting at the enemy artillery to draw their attention away from us. “By 9 P.M., we were ready for action. Then orders came through that we had been designated as a ‘masked battery’ and were to fire only if the Spaniards launched an attack in our direction. We were using smokeless powder, and our position would be difficult to pinpoint. “At ten o’clock sharp, Dewey’s squadron opened fire on the Spanish forts to our left. We watched in awe, as every exploding shell was on target—sending sand, stones and Spaniards flying in all directions. “Meanwhile, the enemy was causing us all kinds of trouble with a machine gun they had mounted on Blockhouse No. 14. Lieutenant Grow took command of two pieces and within a few minutes had reduced the blockhouse to rubble. Our artillery fire plus salvos from the fleet were so effective that the enemy artillery—along the front line of Spanish trenches—was completely silenced. “Minutes later, the infantry was ordered to attack. The First Colorado Volunteers jumped from their trenches and, shouting like banshees, rushed the enemy positions. It was the prettiest charge I had ever seen. The officers threw away their scabbards and, flashing naked swords, led their men in a mad dash across the open field and into a rain of Mauser bullets. Firing volley after volley, the Colorado boys never flinched. Bravery was commonplace. We could hear the sounds of battle and the cheers of our troops, as they drove the Spaniards from trench to trench. “After sweeping the enemy earthworks, two Colorado companies were sent on ahead to seize Fort Malate, while the rest of the regiment covered their assault. The shell-battered fortress was quickly captured. Lieutenant Colonel

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Henry McCoy ripped the Spanish ensign from the fort’s flagpole and raised the Stars and Stripes. Rousing cheers from the soldiers and gun-salvos from the fleet announced the victory. Manila, the ‘Pearl of the Orient,’ lay straight ahead. Only a number of street barricades blocked the way, but they were overrun one by one. “There was only one Spanish company that put up a stand. When Colonel Hale approached their barricade, under a flag of truce, and demanded its captain to surrender, the answer came back with a heavy Irish brogue, ‘Surrender? Nivver—not while a divvil of us is able to pull a trigger!’ However, the brave Hibernian’s troops took to their heels as soon as the Colorado boys, yelping like scalp-hungry Indians, charged the barrier. The valiant officer was forced to surrender, but he won the admiration of the Americans. As Colonel Hale expressed it, ‘The only Spaniard that showed any fight was an Irishman!’ “By 2 P.M., Manila was ours, and ‘Old Glory’ floated above the city hall. The next morning, the Utah Artillery caissons thundered through the streets of Manila at double-quick time, and we set up our quarters in the administration building. By 7 P.M., we had moved all of our equipment and stores into the city before the infantry regiments had pulled up a tent-pin. “Our men were pretty well fagged out, and were grateful to relax in their new quarters. However, there was no rest for me. I was kept on the run from one regimental headquarters to another, interrogating captured Spanish officers and civilian officials. After three days of rushing about, I was worn out and slow as a tired old horse. Lieutenant Grow noticed the condition I was in and placed me on the sick list so I could get some rest. It took time, but I gradually returned to normal. “On 24 August, while I was recuperating, a detail of 15 men, under Sergeant James Burch, was sent to Cavite to retrieve clothing and other articles belonging to Battery B. The items had been left there in order to lighten our knapsacks before going into action. “While the boxes were being loaded aboard a small steamer, Burch and two of his pals, William Anderson and George Hudson, decided to take a short stroll around the town. Hudson, who had spent his entire life on the ‘range’ and in mining camps, had all the six-gun, quick-on-the-trigger attributes often exhibited by men on the frontier. “The three soldiers soon reached a restricted area, where Filipino sentries stopped them from proceeding any farther. Hudson strenuously objected and, to punctuate his remarks, fired his revolver several times in the air. The Filipinos took to their heels but, as Anderson tried to disarm Hudson, the sentries returned with guns blazing. Hudson was shot through the heart and died instantly. Anderson was seriously wounded, but eventually recovered. “The sad news reached us the next day. It was a shock! After surviving a difficult campaign without a man being killed, we had lost one of the best gunners in the battery. As a comrade, Hudson was liked by all—as a soldier,

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he won the admiration of both officers and men. Hudson was buried with all honors at Paco Cemetery on the outskirts of Manila. “Hudson’s death affected me greatly. I came to the realization that the hardest part of a soldier’s life is not the fighting but rather the long, weary marches through rain and mud, the half-rations, and the waiting, waiting, waiting. But life here now is so monotonous that I even hate to describe it. The heat is intense, and one has ambition for nothing whatsoever.” Evaristo de Montalvo was decorated for bravery under fire and rose to the rank of sergeant. He was appointed the official interpreter for the United States Army at Manila. For patriotic reasons, he refused both pay and pension. After the war Evaristo made his home in Cuba, where he served in the Department of Public Works at Havana and was also active in various manufacturing and engineering projects. Upon America’s entry into World War I, Evaristo de Montalvo was appointed confidential agent for the U.S. Government in Cuba. He died in Havana on October 20, 1938, after a long illness.

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The Astor Battery at the Battle of Manila In April 1898 First Lieutenant Peyton C. March graduated from the U.S. Army Artillery School at Fort Monroe, Virginia. In a story that appeared in the July 19, 1958, issue of the Saturday Evening Post, March related the beginning of the unusual set of circumstances that would eventually take him from the Philippine Islands to chief of staff of the United States Army during World War I: “My artillery class was graduated without formality, and the officers were sent to various commands along the Atlantic seaboard and Gulf of Mexico. I began to doubt that I would ever hear a hostile shot. I tried, without success, to get an assignment in Cuba, Puerto Rico or the Philippines.” But the young lieutenant’s luck suddenly took an unexpected turn. In early May he received a phone call from the U.S. War Department stating that Mr. John Jacob Astor had presented the government with funds to purchase a light artillery battery and also requested that it be commanded by a regular army artillery officer. March was told that he had twenty-four hours to decide. March excitedly replied, “I don’t need twenty-four seconds! I accept!” Peyton March narrated: “After I hung up the phone, I executed a Highland fling, and began packing my field equipment. Since my graduation from West Point in 1888, I had spent three of my ten years’ service with light artillery units. I welcomed the opportunity to train my own battery, and command it in war.” March was instructed to see Mr. Henry B. Ely, director of the Astor Estate in New York City. Upon contacting Mr. Ely, however, Peyton March was shocked to learn that the battery was only a “checkbook.” But the fact that the U.S. Government had accepted the battery had been leaked to the press, and a flood of applications to join the unit were being received by the Astor Estate. Lieutenant March continued: “I got in touch with the army recruiting office

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in New York, and was informed that they had no authority to enlist men for the Astor Battery. Ely told me that I had carte blanche to raise and equip a battery, but I would get no help from the government. All its artillery was earmarked for the regular army and national guard. “I quickly realized that if I wanted a battery, I would have to go out and find one. I queried several private corporations that manufactured guns and equipment necessary to outfit an artillery unit, but was informed that the army had bought up everything in sight. Each company said that it would be at least ninety days before they would be able to fill my order. “I was pretty much discouraged as I traveled up to Bridgeport, Connecticut, to the American Ordnance Company. At first, this was another dead end, but then a company official remarked that six, three-inch Hotchkiss mountain guns, with ammunition, were available in Paris, France. As far as I could learn, this was the only battery still for sale on the face of the earth. I hurried back to New York and conferred with Mr. Ely. The money was cabled to Paris, and we purchased the guns sight unseen.” Regular light artillery pieces were permanently attached to carriages and their movements limited to passable roads and open plains. Mountain batteries, however, were portable. Four pack mules were required to transport each artillery piece. One mule carried the tube, another the carriage, and the other two hauled the ammunition. The guns and carriages were constructed so that they could be rapidly disassembled and strapped on the backs of the animals. The mules were able to climb hills and travel across rugged terrain—impossible for ordinary artillery. Each Hotchkiss mountain gun was four feet long, weighed 250 pounds, and was made of steel enameled bronze. The carriage weighed almost as much as the gun itself. Peyton March recalled: “My next problem was how to get the mountain battery to the United States. Spain had torpedo-boat destroyers in European waters, and any attempt to ship the pieces openly could result in their being confiscated. Therefore, I arranged to secretly run the guns and equipment across the French frontier to Antwerp, Belgium. The complete battery was then loaded into a cargo vessel’s bunkers and covered up with coal. “The ship arrived safely in New York and docked at a government pier. The guns were carefully unloaded without publicity and brought to 552 Broadway— a building turned over to me by the Astor Estate, and to be used as battery headquarters.” A few legal technicalities cropped up as to what type of regiment the Astor Battery should be attached. Lieutenant March solved the problem by organizing the unit as an artillery detachment of the regular army. The men were to be enlisted as regulars and carried on the rolls of their regiments as on “detached service with the Astor Battery.” Peyton March stated: “I proposed to take some of my sergeants and corporals from regular artillery outfits, so as to have my squads well trained and to detail

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regular army lieutenants as my officers. After much discussion, the plan—finally approved by Major General Henry C. Corbin—called for three lieutenants, besides myself, and ninety-eight men. I also requested permission for the Astor Battery to join the next expedition sailing to the Philippines.” Lieutenant March immediately began to put his plan into action. The men who had already applied to join the battery were notified to appear at the U.S. Army recruiting office in New York City. March stated: “For the most part, I selected educated men—like the captain of a Cornell football team. However, I reserved some vacancies to be filled with wheelwrights, blacksmiths, and others experienced in handling a mule-drawn light artillery battery. I also approved applications from several regular army corporals and sergeants who were itching to join an outfit that might see action. All the men I had chosen were ordered to report to the Broadway address, which I also decided to use as an armory and barracks. I purchased the necessary cots and bedding on the open market. “My next step was to acquire uniforms. The Army Quartermaster Department could not supply the Astor Battery, so I decided to have uniforms made to order. Mr. Ely and I went to the John Wanamaker Company and inspected samples of blue cloth. I chose a swatch of the best quality material and asked for a price on a hundred uniforms—each measured to order and delivered in four days. The Wanamaker salesman said that this was too short a time, but a bonus fee, over the price he had already quoted, changed his mind. Within a few hours, more than a dozen tailors descended upon 552 Broadway and measured every man in the battery. The building was a madhouse of activity, but on the specified date, every soldier was dressed in a smart new uniform. “About this same time, I heard about a New York importing firm that was stuck with an oversupply of British tropical linen khaki uniforms and pith helmets of the type worn in India. There was one feature that sold me on these uniforms—they had many pockets. I knew that a man can cover the ground to a much better advantage if ammunition and other necessary items are distributed equally about the body. I bought the entire lot at an excellent price. Upon hearing the news, Mr. Ely became so excited that he presented every man in the battery with a superior type of brown marching shoe—at his own expense. “We now had our uniforms and guns, but then another problem immediately arose—the U.S. Army did not have a drill manual for the Hotchkiss three-inch mountain gun. I wrote one up and had it printed on a rush order. A copy of the pamphlet was given to each soldier in the battery, with orders to memorize its contents. Within three days, every man was letter-perfect in drill procedure. I also arranged with the Astor Estate to buy up all three-inch Hotchkiss ammunition that could be found anywhere in the world and placed an order with the American Ordnance Company for a resupply.” Hotchkiss mountain guns could be pulled along passable roads, but they were primarily designed for use in rugged country where they could be broken down in sections and carried on the backs of mules. At first, this seemed to be a problem, but Henry Ely informed Lieutenant March that Mr. Astor could supply

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all the animals required because of his substantial investments in stockyards. March arranged to have the mules assembled at St. Louis. The battery could pick them up while en route to San Francisco. Peyton March remarked: “When the battery finally received its orders to leave for California, the directive stipulated that I proceed without mules and obtain ponies in the Philippines. I notified the army’s adjutant general that Mr. Astor had already bought mules, saddles and harnesses, but the War Department was adamant. We would be supplied with ‘native stock’ upon arrival in the Philippines.” On June 13 the Astor Battery left Jersey City aboard a special train and arrived at San Francisco a week later. Lieutenant March and his men were assigned to General Wesley Merritt’s ship, the Newport. At 2 P.M. on June 27, a troopship convoy consisting of the Indiana, City of Para, Morgan City, and Ohio sailed from San Francisco. The flotilla was commanded by General Arthur MacArthur. The convoy was joined the next day by the Valencia. The Newport sailed on June 29th. In addition to the Astor Battery and General Merritt’s headquarters staff, the Newport carried a battalion of coast artillery to be used as infantry. She was a faster vessel and caught up with MacArthur’s convoy at Honolulu. Little time was wasted in the Hawaiian Islands. With the Newport in the lead, the flotilla continued its journey west. Merritt’s ship soon outdistanced the convoy and arrived at Manila Bay on July 25—five days before MacArthur showed up. General Merritt disembarked his troops about 3,000 yards south of the outer line of Spanish entrenchments. Private James Watterson of the Astor Battery narrated: “We climbed aboard cascos and headed toward Cavite. The boats had to plow through rough water and a heavy surf. Salt water entered several of our ammunition cases and ruined the powder. Lieutenant March was able to obtain dry powder from one of the naval ships. Its ballistic properties differed from Hotchkiss gun specifications but could be used until we received fresh ammunition. “Coming ashore at Cavite was an experience. The town and arsenal were crowded with Americans from earlier convoys. We could see the smokestacks of sunken Spanish vessels, like fake gravestones, marking the last resting place of the ships and men of Spain.” Captain C. G. Sawtelle of General MacArthur’s staff stated: “The tip of Point Cavite is occupied by an old fort. At one time, on top of its heavy stone parapets stood several smooth bore cannons. They had been lugged away by the Filipino insurgents and dragged to their trenches near Malate. “Behind the fort are machine-shops and storehouses. All kinds of work was going on, and complete facilities had been set up for almost any kind of maritime repairs. “The insurgents, wearing striped blue cotton uniforms and straw hats, were permitted to work in the shops. The Filipinos made the most of their opportunity.

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They ripped the guns from the wrecked Spanish ships and made breech locks to replace those thrown overboard by the Spaniards. Within a few days, the defenders of Manila were looking down the barrels of their own cannons. “In one small hut near the navy yard, a beehive of insurgents were busy cleaning and reloading cartridge shells. Nothing was wasted—the Filipinos managed to make everything serve their purpose. “Across from the yard stretched the town of Old Cavite, with its vile-smelling, narrow streets. Only the top floors of the two-story dwellings were used for living quarters. The ground level spaces were taken up with shops and storerooms. “Evidently nobody in the village ever heard of street cleaning. The roadways are not even guttered and are littered with sewage and garbage. Whenever it rains, water stands a few feet deep in the first floor rooms. We not only boiled our water, but filtered it as well.” With the arrival of General MacArthur’s troops, General Thomas Anderson divided the American forces into two brigades. The First Brigade was placed under MacArthur’s command and was composed of the First California and Second Oregon Volunteer Regiments, the Twenty-third and Fourteenth U.S. Infantry Regiments, Battery A of the Utah Artillery and the Astor Battery. The Second Brigade, commanded by General Francis Greene, included the First Colorado, First Nebraska and Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Regiment, along with the Eighteenth U.S. Infantry Regiment and Battery B of the Utah Artillery. Captain Sawtelle continued: “Near the Cavite landing site, our infantry regiments had dug trenches that extended far enough east to cover all roads entering Manila from the south. The older part of Manila was a walled town with a moat and drawbridges. Both old and new sections were ringed by a line of entrenchments that were linked together by a series of blockhouses.” The Astor Battery had been ordered to support the extreme right of the American line. But Peyton March was not satisfied with the location and requested permission to move his battery farther forward to the front line of trenches. Lieutenant March argued: “The position assigned to the Astor Battery was encumbered by heavy brush and bamboo. The location I wanted offered a clear field of fire on Spanish blockhouse No. 13 near the village of Singalong. General MacArthur, however, told me that he did not have the authority to make a decision on the matter. “I was fuming, but placed my battery in its designated spot and made plans for a possible change of location. I quickly assembled a working party and, with axes, bolos and shovels, we built protected artillery emplacements forward on the firing line. I also had a trail cut through the underbrush connecting both positions. If an attack developed, I was determined to move my Hotchkiss guns to the front by manpower.” James Watterson recalled: “For ten days we lived in an overly crowded tent-

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city called Camp Dewey. Regiments, and supporting units, continually arrived and were moved to the front. “The Astor Battery left Camp Dewey for the trenches on the evening of 12 August. A violent thunderstorm was raging. The rain was coming down hard and fast. The water and mud were too deep for the mules and ponies. We used ropes and sleds to drag our guns and equipment. The distance—more than four miles—was over the worst ground I have ever wallowed through. It was impossible to see more than two yards ahead, and we often fell into holes up to our shoulders. The Hotchkiss guns were underwater most of the time. But we held on to the drag ropes and pulled them out of the ditches. We were exhausted by the time we arrived at our assigned location and slept in a banana patch in the rain and mud until five o’clock the next morning. “We had barely finished our coffee and hardtack, when a Filipino detachment on our right flank opened fire on a Spanish blockhouse. The Spaniards answered with a fierce cannonade. We quickly moved out, hacking a path through a bamboo thicket and moving our Hotchkiss guns to within two hundred yards of the enemy position. “The blockhouse was defended by six artillery pieces and infantry. A continuous barrage of shells and Mauser bullets whistled over our heads, snapping off the branches of trees. The bullets seemed to explode whenever they hit a bamboo stalk, but I believe the noise was caused by the release of trapped air inside the bamboo. “Due to our cramped position (the Filipinos had crowded us on the right), only three of our pieces could be brought to bear on the enemy. We immediately attacked the Spaniards and planted shell after shell into the blockhouse. But the Spanish gunners had our range calibrated to the yard. Their first salvo exploded a few feet from my head. A flying splinter knocked the hat over my eyes, but I did not get a scratch. Shrapnel from the same shell ripped through the spoke of one of our gun carriages, sliced off the barrel of Private Charles Dunn’s revolver, plowed through his canteen, and then tore away eight inches of his right thigh muscle. “Our shells quickly set fire to the blockhouse, and the enemy’s ammunition began to explode. The Spaniards rushed from the fort, shooting at us as they ran. We dragged two of the Hotchkiss guns over the breastworks and pursued the fleeing soldiers. A few of our men had cold feet and were left behind. “When we reached the blockhouse, it was deserted. But the scene resembled a Fourth of July celebration—with all the ammunition going off in tremendous explosions. We chased the Spanish troops to the nearby village of Singalong where another blockhouse had been built near a small church. “Meanwhile, Dewey’s fleet was shelling the enemy positions, and the Spanish defenders began fleeing in our direction. We began shooting at the approaching Spaniards, but we were vastly outnumbered. Our Hotchkiss guns soon became hot and choked with mud. As soon as the enemy troops in the blockhouse noticed that we were having trouble, they opened fire with a heavy artillery

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barrage on our position. General MacArthur, noticing the emergency, shouted for a captain and ‘men of nerve to take that fort!’ ” Lieutenant March narrated: “Every man in the Astor Battery was armed with a revolver. The distance to the Spanish blockhouse was about a hundred yards. Our only supporting unit was a company of Thirteenth Minnesota Volunteers. Captain Sawtelle took command of the volunteers and hollered to me above the sounds of battle, ‘Let’s go!’ I pulled my pistol from its holster, waved it in the direction of the enemy, and shouted, ‘Come on men!’ ” Private Watterson wrote: “We had rushed to within 50 yards of the blockhouse, when the Spaniards within the fort cut loose with a devastating Mauser barrage. We ran for shelter behind a battered wood fence. The few boards— behind which I was partly hidden—were hit forty times by bullets striking just above my head. “We suddenly found ourselves trapped between two fires—the Spanish shooting at us from ahead and the Minnesota boys from behind. Sergeant R. H. Sillman was wounded in the leg. Then, as Sergeant M. E. Holmes was about to apply a bandage to the wound, Holmes was struck in the head—the bullet tearing away five inches of his skull. A moment later, Sergeant Cremins was killed. One bullet struck my canteen and another ripped through my shirt. We finally managed to reach our Hotchkiss guns and soon forced the Spaniards from their trenches and the blockhouse. We suffered two men killed and eight wounded.” Lieutenant March stated: “After the enemy entrenchments had been taken, the Spaniards retreated into the city. By 1:30 P.M., all firing had ceased, and we were ordered to move forward. As we cautiously advanced with our artillery into Manila, Filipino troops followed directly behind us—probably intending to loot the place. They were quickly ordered to withdraw beyond the city limits.” In a letter to a friend Private Walter A. Seymour of the Astor Battery related his part in the battle and his impressions of Manila and the Philippine Islands: “I was slightly wounded by a Spanish shell that ripped through the wheels of my Hotchkiss gun knocking out a couple of spokes, but did not explode. The force of the concussion threw me to the ground, and splinters from the shattered wheel cut the back of my right hand. My left hand and face were also slashed. Two fellows helped me to the hospital where my wounds were dressed. I stayed there for some time, recovering from the effects of the shock, which dazed me considerably. By the time the medics released me, the fight was over. “The day after the battle, I had a chance to walk around the town and do some sight-seeing. Manila is an old city—half Spanish, half native, and woefully out of date. Streets are laid out haphazardly. They are crooked, vary in width, and are poorly paved and drained. No sewer system exists. Property rights are not carefully preserved, and a good lawyer can be kept busy for years. “Public improvements are not the only things out of date—so is the system for doing business. Imagine the chance for Americans to compete with Spanish

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and native shop owners, who carry inferior merchandise, do not advertise, and care less whether you buy or not. “Such a thing as ‘one price’ does not exist. If you intend to buy an item, you must first haggle with the merchant. If you accept his asking price without an argument, the seller is disappointed. I, for one, prefer the American system. “There are only two common carriers on Luzon—the Manila horse-car line and the Manila-Dagupan Railway that runs north, 120 miles, to Dagupan on the coast. A fantastic opportunity awaits here for American capital to develop the transportation facilities of the Philippine Islands. Whereas the only opportunity available to young fellows like ourselves, who have no capital, is to try and find a government job. “Most local public transportation is by caribao, or water buffalo, hitched to a two-wheeled cart. But the majority of goods are carried by the natives on their shoulders by means of wood poles. Using this method, I have seen men tote rice, sugar, furniture, and almost anything else you can think of. I once watched four natives—using two poles—haul a piano. “This is going to be a great country for making big money. Everything is in its primitive state. All it needs is development. Native labor is mostly unskilled, but is abundant and cheap. Any line of business would be successful. A man with a little cash could make a fortune in a few years with the opportunities presented here. “Mahogany and sugar are still manufactured using crude methods. The only thing needed is machinery. A number of Catholic priests, here in Manila, told me that the surrounding mountains are full of gold. The main reason that they have not been prospected is that the church and Spanish government forbid it. Although, I also understand that the natives who live in the highlands are savages. Less than fifty miles from Manila, there are tribes who use bows and arrows and blow guns with poisoned darts!” Peyton March had hoped that the Astor Battery might be allowed to remain in the Philippines until all the country’s political problems were solved. However, early in December 1898 he received orders to return to the United States. Lieutenant March remarked: “General Elwell Otis asked me if he could keep the Hotchkiss guns and ammunition. I told him that I would turn over everything to the Eighth Army Corps except the men’s personal mess equipment and their revolvers. General Otis agreed to my proposal and prepared a formal order covering the transfer of property. “The Astor Battery sailed from Manila on 13 December aboard the army transport Senator and steamed into New York Harbor on 22 January 1899. The battery was mustered for discharge on 2 February. Each member of the unit was permitted to keep his mess kit, uniform, and pistol he had used in the famous charge at Singalong. My own personal momento of the battle was the Astor Battery guidon [battle flag] carried during the action by this splendid organization.”

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The Surrender of Manila: John T. McCutcheon’s Story John T. McCutcheon was aboard the Olympia at the surrender of Manila. In his story to the Chicago Record, he described the part played by the U.S. Navy in the battle for the city and his impressions of Admiral George Dewey. August 15, 1898 By early August, the Navy was ready for the assault on Manila, and I moved from the McCulloch to Admiral Dewey’s flagship, the Olympia. I was soon joined by Ed Harden of the New York World and John Barrett, who had only recently arrived in the Philippines and represented the New York Journal. Life aboard the Olympia was much different than on the McCulloch. It was more demanding with numerous rules and regulations. Every mail brought new evidence of Admiral Dewey’s popularity. But, throughout this flood of compliments, the admiral’s personality never changed, and he never indicated that the publicity had affected him in any way other than positively. Dewey was a man you could greatly admire, but with whom you could not feel very comfortable. I never ceased to be afraid of him, and during our conversations I always hurried to get them over with before I had outstripped his patience. Everyone in the fleet felt the same way. Nobody had a chatty relationship with him. At nine o’clock on the morning of August 10, the American ships were made ready for battle—awnings were taken down, ammunition was brought to the guns, and steam was built up in the boilers. We were to get underway at noon. All foreign vessels in the bay were notified of Dewey’s intentions. A dozen merchant ships, packed with refugees, headed for the safety of Mariveles Bay. The German admiral sent word to Dewey asking him where his flotilla should anchor and was told he could station the ships any place he chose, as long as he kept out of range. Surprisingly, four English warships and one Japanese joined the American men-of-war off Cavite.

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Shortly before ten o’clock, General Merritt came aboard the Olympia and asked for a delay in our attack stating that the army was not ready. We were all disappointed, especially the men who had lived aboard ship for months just within sight of the city lights. The fleet was signaled to bank fires, and Admiral Dewey was told that twenty-four hours notice would be given before the land forces would launch their assault. An ultimatum was sent to Spain’s governor-general at Manila. It was delivered by the Belgium consul, M. Edouard Andre, and said in effect that if the city did not give up peacefully within forty-eight hours, it might be bombarded. A face-saving agreement was reached whereby Dewey would fire a few rounds at Fort Malate, and the Spaniards would hoist a white flag. On Friday, August 12, Admiral Dewey issued orders for all ships to prepare to get underway at nine o’clock the following morning. The army was directed to be under arms at 6 A.M.—each man with a day’s rations. The fact that both the army and navy were ready to go convinced everyone that nothing less than a rough sea or orders from Washington to suspend hostilities could prevent the attack on Manila. As the time approached marking the end of the grace period, enthusiasm aboard the fleet was running at a high pitch. Men on the sick list begged to be released, and those unfit for heavy work asked to be assigned to lighter work. A few thoughtful sailors wrote farewell letters home, but the majority prepared for a victory celebration. One alarming incident occurred during the early evening. Shortly after 7 P.M., while relaxing in the wardroom, the shrill blast of a bugle sounding general quarters blared throughout the ship. Every corridor and gangway was instantly crowded with men running to their battle stations. All lights went out. The clatter of sidearms, the rattle of muskets, and the surge of shadowy figures rushing down the darkened passages made the adrenaline flow. We had no idea what caused the alarm, but the suddenness with which the bugle cry pierced into every corner of the vessel seemed to shout a warning that enemy warships had slipped unnoticed into the bay—or else Spanish shore batteries had opened fire on our fleet. Harden and I hurried to the deck rail where we saw a strange ship coming alongside the Olympia. A Filipino officer was standing on the bow. He frantically waved and shouted to see Admiral Dewey. The officer was motioned to come aboard. He stated that his vessel was the Filipinas and was carrying a company of soldiers. The Filipino officer wanted to get permission to leave the bay, but he became scared and excited when he heard the bugle call and watched the ominous preparations taking place for battle. The admiral told the officer, in no uncertain terms, that in another minute the Filipinas would have been used for target practice. The man was frightened and trembling when he left the Olympia, but he realized what others had already found out—that it was foolhardy to mess with Admiral Dewey. While the Filipinas was alongside the Olympia, several of the soldiers were overheard to boast that they could capture the Olympia if they were able to catch the crew unawares. Fortunately Dewey did not hear the remark, but the incident certainly furnished an object lesson to one Filipino officer. At 8:30 A.M. the following day, August 13, Admiral Dewey, Captain Lamberton, and a few other men took their places on the forward bridge. Dewey sent word that Harden, Barrett and I could join him on the bridge. Ed and I hurried topside. Barrett was finishing a story and said he would join us later. At nine o’clock sharp, the Olympia’s engines began to throb. As the flagship slowly

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moved forward, the national ensign whipped in the wind from the topmost masthead. A few minutes later the naval squadron formed in line and steamed toward their assigned positions. The Olympia was in the lead, followed by the Baltimore, Monterey, Charleston, Boston, Petrel, Raleigh, McCulloch, Callao, Barcelo, Zafiro, and Kwonghoi. It was a magnificent sight. A dozen lead-colored warships flying bright streaming banners, moving like on parade—but with a more deadly agenda. As the squadron neared Malate, the Charleston, Baltimore, Boston, Monterey, and McCulloch took their position directly opposite Manila. They were to engage the heavy Spanish guns if the latter opened fire. The Concord took her station off the mouth of the Pasig River. The Zafiro, Kwonghoi, Callao, and Barcelo headed toward Camp Dewey. They were instructed to move close inshore, and upon signal, rake the nearby Spanish trenches with machine gun fire. The Barcelo had a broom lashed to her stack—a humorous way of signifying a clean-sweep for the U.S. Navy. The bombardment of Fort Malate was Dewey’s assignment. As the Olympia steamed toward the black foreboding walls of the bastion, a painful silence engulfed the ship. At the slightest sound of conversation, the sharp voice of the admiral would snap from the bridge, “Stop that noise!” Cotton was distributed to the crew to protect the ears of the men from the concussion of gunfire. Suddenly a light rain began to fall—almost obscuring the shoreline. But then a quick burst of sunshine revealed our target at a distance of 4,000 yards. The order was given to fire when ready. A six-pounder and eight-inch gun cut loose with a salvo. The shots fell short due to a mistake in the range. This was caused by the mirage effect— making the land appear nearer than it actually was. The range was increased 200 yards. This time our five-inch batteries were called upon to do the job. Cease firing was ordered after one salvo in order to check where the shots were landing. Up to this time, the Spaniards had not returned our fire. It was thought that they were waiting for us to come nearer—or else the fort might be deserted. Admiral Dewey directed the Raleigh and Petrel to make a high-speed run past Malate within range of the Spanish guns—but there was still no response from the enemy. At 9:50 A.M., U.S. Army regiments—advancing toward Malate—opened fire on the fort. The smoke from their volleys hung in white, slow-moving clouds above them. A minute later, short blasts of fire and smoke erupted from the Fort Malate gunports. At ten o’clock the Olympia opened fire in support of the troops. Our shells exploded in and around the walls of the fortress. But they either fell short or landed in the swamps behind the bastion, sending columns of water high in the air. There was a tendency of the gunners to aim a little too far left. They were afraid of hitting our land forces approaching from the right. Dense clouds of smoke drifted around the Olympia, Raleigh and Petrel. Firing was often ceased to allow the haze to clear. Word was passed to use smokeless powder, but this was ineffective in the heavy, damp atmosphere. The Olympia was about 3,000 yards off the beach at ten-thirty, when orders were issued to cease firing. Captain Lamberton looked anxiously toward the walls of Manila, and in a troubled tone of voice remarked, “It’s time the white flag was up. They were to hoist it over the south corner of the walled city.” Admiral Dewey was also irritated by the evident refusal of the Spanish to surrender.

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His testy temper began to get the best of him, and his language became extremely gruff and snappy as he paced the deck. Whenever the admiral came near us on one of his rambling tirades, we hid behind a ventilator. All of a sudden, Barrett came up to the bridge. He nonchalantly walked up to Dewey and asked in a condescending tone of voice, “Admiral, what are your plans?” Well, that did it. Dewey erupted into an explosion of expletives that could have blown up Manila. Harden and I did not say a word as a visibly shaken Barrett joined us in a protected area of the bridge. He certainly learned his lesson in diplomacy the hard way. Meanwhile, the smokey haze along the shore began to clear, and I could see a regiment of American soldiers advancing boldly up the narrow beach. It was an impressive sight watching the long line of brown uniforms struggling through the heavy surf, then dashing across the slender strip of sand leading to Fort Malate. A scattering fire suddenly opened up from the Spanish trenches. The troops on the beach stopped for a moment, answered the attack, then continued their advance. They soon reached a stream about three hundred yards from the fort. Then, holding their rifles above their heads, the Americans splashed through the water in double-time. Their regimental flag and national colors flying as they crossed the last barrier between them and Fort Malate. The regiment’s band valiantly followed behind the infantry, playing for dear life as they tried to keep up with the main body of troops. Aboard the fleet, hundreds of eyes followed the soldiers with breathless anxiety. As we watched the regiment near the fort, Mauser bullets began kicking up sand on all sides of the troops. Admiral Dewey remarked that it was the bravest advance under fire that he had ever witnessed. The band was playing, “There Will Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” when a shattering explosion suddenly rocked the fort, followed by a dense column of black smoke shooting high in the air. A powder magazine had detonated. Smaller explosions were heard, followed by flames. Fort Malate was silent. A storm of cheers erupted from the throats of the sailors as the infantry scrambled over the Spanish trenches and swarmed into the fort. A minute later, the red and yellow flag of Spain was ripped down, and the Stars and Stripes was raised in its place. It was now 11 A.M., the time agreed upon for the city to capitulate. From the forward halyards of the Olympia, the international signal “Do You Surrender?” flapped in the blustery wind, but there was no answer showing from the walls of Manila. Whiteknuckled tension gripped the men handling the guns. Dewey was fuming. He quickly shifted the position of his ships. All vessels—except the Callao, Concord and Barcelo—were ordered to take stations opposite the city. Every gun in the fleet that would bear was trained on Manila. A huge Spanish flag still floated over the walls of the city. There was no indication of surrender or weakening resolve on the part of the Spaniards. At 11:45, the Belgium consul’s launch came alongside the Olympia. Lieutenant Brumby grabbed the largest American flag he could find and climbed aboard the boat. The launch immediately headed toward Manila, about 1,500 yards distant. A short time later, the international signal “Hold Conference,” was hoisted above the city walls. A long wait followed. Lunch was served aboard the ships. Guns were kept trained on Manila, but the Spanish flag continued to wave stubbornly above the beleaguered town. Admiral Dewey paced back and forth from one side of the bridge to the other. Nobody dared speak a word unless spoken to. As each slow, pulsating minute ticked off the clock, sailors, eager for action, became

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more and more agitated. Tempers were short and a feeling of uneasiness crept stealthily from ship to ship. Suddenly, shortly after two o’clock, the Belgium consul’s launch was sighted plowing through the water and heading to the Olympia. This seemed to portend that a surrender agreement had not been reached, for the Spanish colors still flew above the city walls. It certainly did not look like capitulation. As soon as the launch came alongside the Olympia, Lieutenant Brumby hurriedly climbed the ladder to the deck and called up to the admiral, “Well, they’ve surrendered alright!” Dewey quickly answered, “Then why don’t they haul down their flag?” “They’ll do that when Merritt gets six or seven hundred soldiers in the city to protect them from the Filipinos,” Brumby explained. “Well, you go back and tell Merritt that I agree to anything,” the admiral replied in an exasperated tone of voice. At 5:45, the Spanish flag was observed slowly coming down, and a minute later, the American ensign was hoisted in its place. Just as our flag reached the top of the pole, a bright stream of sunlight burst through the clouds. It illuminated the Stars and Stripes like a spotlight shining on a theater stage. Cheering could be heard throughout the fleet, and for the next ten minutes 189 saluting charges were fired—twenty-one from each of the nine large warships. The Olympia’s band struck up “The Victory at Manila,” and the officers relaxed into a revel of merrymaking and speeches. By ten o’clock in the evening, several hundred American soldiers had entered Manila. The Second Oregon Volunteer Regiment patrolled the walled city and guarded its nine gates. The First California battalions were sent into the Tondo district of Manila, and the First Nebraska Regiment patrolled the north shore of the Pasig River. Throughout the night, the Spaniards were busy surrendering their weapons. Ten thousand Mauser rifles were found stored in Malate and twice as many in the city—most of them had never been fired. Several modern field pieces were also discovered, along with a number of rifled cannons and three ammunition magazines. The former Spanish governor-general, Basilio Augustin, with his wife and children, left Manila on the German steamer Kaiserin Augusta with permission of the American authorities. General Merritt established his headquarters in the governor’s official palace within the walled city, and made his home in the summer palace at Malacan˜ang.

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Letters from Manila In a letter to his parents, Lieutenant A. J. Luther, First Colorado Volunteers, described life at Camp Dewey before the American attack on Manila.

July 27, 1898 You can talk all you want about the difficulties of the Cuba campaign, but you can rest assured that this Philippine war is not going to be a snap either. I am now at Camp Dewey, on the shores of Manila Bay, and about four miles from the city itself. For miles and miles around us there is nothing but thick jungles and swamps. I have been reliably informed that the people of these islands are no farther advanced in civilization than they were 300 years ago. Many of the natives live on the water in wretched boats or on the land in bark huts. As far as clothing is concerned, their dress consists of very thin material, but they keep the scanty raiment as clean as any nationality on earth. The cleanliness of their bodies, however, does not seem to be as important. I imagine that they consider clothing to be the only essential part of their appearance that should be kept clean. We have not entered Manila as yet, and I cannot say when that will happen. You will be surprised to learn, however, that I have been under enemy fire three times since our arrival. The other day, I was with a detachment that included Major Cassius Moses and Captain William Grove. We were on a reconnaissance mission to determine the enemy’s position and strength. We were able to sneak within 300 yards of the Spanish entrenchments before we were sighted. Captain Grove had just climbed to the top of a brick wall, when a flury of Mauser bullets sent him tumbling to the ground. Fortunately he was not hit, and everyone returned to camp safely. For my next assignment, I was placed in charge of a company repairing the main road leading to Manila. We were working within a few hundred yards of the enemy trenches, so you can tell how close we were to the jaws of danger. All the while, the Spaniards

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kept up a steady rifle and artillery fire. One large caliber shell plowed up the road about 25 yards from me, but luckily it did not explode. The Spanish and the insurgents continually trade volleys, but neither side seems able to hit anything. The Spaniards shoot into the air and expect the bullets to find their target. When they run up against us, however, the Spanish will find it’s a different ball game. We won’t play around with them, but will determine the correct aiming distance and make them dance.

Four letters of Private William Hall, Company B, Twenty-third U.S. Infantry, describe his regiment’s role in the Battle of Manila and the subsequent conflict between the American and Filipino forces that surrounded the city. August 16, 1898 There was a lot of excitement at Camp Dewey on the 12th. The commandant of the Spanish garrison at Manila sent an ultimatum to General Merritt that the Americans must vacate the camp or it would be shelled. Well, Merritt and Admiral Dewey held a meeting, and the general said that it would be a shame to leave without first passing through Manila and paying his respects to the commandant. So, early the next morning, the bombardment of the Spanish defenses began. At the time, our company was in reserve, but we could hear the heavy salvos from Dewey’s ships, and rapid artillery fire to our front as the Astor Battery opened up. By way of digression, I wish to say that to be held in reserve when fighting the Spanish is a dangerous place to be. The Spaniards poke their Mausers over the top of their entrenchments, and blaze away for dear life, hoping that they might hit something. Enemy bullets hummed a deadly tune around us. Zip, zip, zip—they slashed the bark on trees and splashed mud everywhere. It was a miracle that no one was hit. We were soon ordered forward about 500 yards, and deployed behind some trenches. We were near the firing line, but not on it. All we could do was lay there and wait. It was hard to keep quiet with all the shooting going on and not being able to lend a hand. I did notice a difference between American and Spanish rifle-fire tactics. The Spaniards fired “at will” while the Americans fired by volleys. The shooting accuracy of our troops was impressive, as after each volley, the enemy guns went silent for several minutes. Within the hour, the Astor Battery demolished a blockhouse to our front and dismounted its guns. There was now a break in the Spanish lines. The shout “Charge!” echoed along the entire American front. I wish you could have heard the yell that went up—perhaps you did. It sounded loud enough to be heard in “Frisco.” The Spaniards seemed dumbfounded. They fired wildly for a moment, then broke and ran, the officers in the lead screaming, “The Americanos! The Americanos!” However, I will give the Dons credit for one thing—they can run! Only a professional sprinter could keep up with them. By now you have probably read the details of our victory at Manila. But most newspaper reporters struggle with a pen or pencil to write their stories, while sitting in a comfortable headquarter’s tent and nurturing a glass of whiskey and a stale Cuban cigar. The view from the trenches, however, was not as friendly. Manila was captured by American endurance, courage and heroism. The Stars and Stripes now proudly flaunt their colors over this ancient city. Spanish cruelty, Castilian arrogance, and the Don’s unlimited pride are now a thing of the past. May that yellow,

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blood-stained banner of oppression and misrule never again wave over these fair isles, nor more American blood have to be shed in their defense. August 22, 1898 The Astor Battery was not very well liked while it was in California. Most of the men in our regiment thought they were rather stuck on themselves. But, once the battle for Manila started, a braver group of men never trod in shoe leather, and the way they handled their guns was a wonder. You have probably heard a great deal about the “Boys in Blue” in the Philippines. However, the title could not have referred to us. Our shirts, trousers and leggings were brown. Our campaign hats were a dirty mustard color. And our faces, well, they resembled Mother Earth more than anything else. We had been sleeping in water-filled trenches and wallowing in mud. By the time our company entered Manila, we were the toughest, meanest looking bunch of men you ever laid eyes on. I could relate many incidents, both humorous and pathetic, but that would make this letter too long. However, there is one characteristic that sets the American soldier apart from his enemies—the care and handling of prisoners of war. In fact, the Spaniards could not believe the humane treatment they received from us. We were not the dreaded conquerors that they had been told about. For example, our company captured a military police barracks with a hundred Spaniards. As we marched them up the street, our advance guard sighted a white flag waving from a balcony window. Suddenly, a Spaniard peeked out, took one look at our grimy, unwashed soldiers, and, believing they were Filipinos, yanked the flag back inside. The sergeant of the advance guard immediately signaled for reinforcements. Minutes later, our company was deployed around the building, kneeling with rifles at the ready, and prepared to give the enemy a hotfoot. Then out comes a hand, and the white flag quickly appears again. To make a long story short, about two dozen Spanish soldiers came out and surrendered. The Spaniards looked very pale and nervous, evidently believing that their doom was at hand. We relieved them of their weapons, and a guard was placed around the building. By this time it was late afternoon, and we had had nothing to eat since early morning. There was a small park across the street that our company captain decided would be an ideal spot for a dinner break. We carried canned bacon, beans and hardtack in our haversacks, and some of the men still had stale coffee in their canteens. Our Spanish prisoners were a sorry looking group, and we could tell they were hungry. But, for us to eat in front of them would be un-American. So, to their astonishment, we divided our meager rations with them. A few of us understood Spanish and translated their remarks of appreciation. One Spanish soldier said, “You Americans fight like the very devil, and then you laugh and joke like it was the greatest fun in the world.” That statement reminded me of an English reporter, who had a bird’s-eye view of the battle, and wrote “The Americans came on like it was a holiday excursion and never stopped until they reached Manila.” September 11, 1898 Our regiment is now stationed at the Arsenal—very pleasant quarters that front the bay. We are the Provost Marshal Guard—so, in case of any disturbance, we will be the first on the scene. But, if you believe the rumors going around, this war is far from over.

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The Filipino insurgents have been causing a lot of trouble. They have moved into the trenches we occupied during the battle and seem to be disposed to act as ugly as possible. They attempted to dig a line of entrenchments nearer Manila, but a few well-directed shells from the Astor Battery changed their minds. On the evening of 8 September, the insurgents set up one of their artillery pieces close to our lines. One of our scouts noticed the activity and, at dark, the Astor Battery sneaked a couple of Hotchkiss guns within a hundred yards of it. At dawn, when the Filipinos saw this artillery facing them at point blank range, they scurried like mice back to their trenches. But, in their hurry, they forgot to take the cannon with them. The Astor boys took care of that mistake—they made sure the gun would never fire another shell. September 16, 1898 A couple of days ago, while I was sitting peacefully in the company office, daydreaming of things other than wars and rumors thereof, the regiment was ordered to move out immediately and prepare for action. The insurgent forces had entered a section of Manila and claimed equal rights with American troops to patrol the streets. With a show of force, the Twenty-third blocked their advance. The Filipinos quickly dispersed and slipped back into the jungle. The incident angered General MacArthur and, in no uncertain terms, he warned the insurgents that if they did not get out of the city, and stay out, he would be forced to take any means necessary to protect American interests in the Philippines. The Filipinos promised to obey and withdrew their forces from around Manila. Most of our boys will return home to receive the smiles of the fair and the applause of the politicians. But there are some of us who will forever sleep in this far off tropical land, while above us, the Star Spangled Banner kisses the breeze that murmers sweet remembrances over the graves of the fallen. And the gentle southern rain moistens with its tears the grasses and flowers that will keep eternally green the deeds of these heroes who died for the cause of liberty and the freedom of man.

In a letter to the Chicago Record, John T. McCutcheon described the ceremonial departure of Aguinaldo’s followers from the city of Manila on September 14, 1898. Early in the morning—riding out from the Calle Real in Ermita—appeared an officer on a fiery pony. He was Colonel Juan Cailles, one of the ablest officers in the insurgent army—a man whose entire soul was in the cause. He was well educated, a fine strategist, and with a nobility that marked him a man of the highest quality. Close on the heels of the colonel’s pony came the magnificent Pasig Band, composed entirely of native musicians and numbering ninety pieces. Each man was in uniform, and the music they played was a stirring march that set the horses to prancing and the onlookers tingling with enthusiasm. Next came the soldiers—hundreds and hundreds of them—all dressed in blue cotton drilling, and each man carrying a rifle. The picture they made in their bright uniforms as they filed down the Calle Luis, with the bands playing and the horses dancing, was a sight not soon forgotten. Throngs of people watched the troops march by. But there was something pathetic

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about the parade. The Filipinos were being driven out of the city that they had fought so hard to capture. And, even though their presence within the American lines was a constant threat and their withdrawal absolutely necessary, I could not help feeling sorry for them. With determined steps, Aguinaldo’s soldiers moved down the Paco road to the Calle Bagumbayan and then began a triumphal march past the walls of Old Manila, where the ramparts were crowded with Spanish prisoners watching the departure of their enemies. This was the closest that the Filipino flag had ever flown near the walled city. And it must have been a source of satisfaction to the insurgents to show a strength of force to their hated oppressors by parading the flag beneath the ancient walls. Scores of carriages were drawn up along the line of march—many of which were occupied by Spanish officers and their ladies. Turning from the Calle Bagumbayan, which circles the eastern and southern sides of the walled city, Colonel Cailles and his troops marched up the Calle Real, never stopping until they left the suburbs far behind. Over in the Tondo, Sampaloc, and other districts where the insurgents had gathered, the scene was repeated, although not with as much fanfare. Throughout the day, more than four thousand armed Filipinos marched out of Manila. Many of them returned later, but they were unarmed and consequently welcomed to stay as long as they chose. General Elwell Otis conducted the arrangements for the departure of the insurgents very skillfully, for it was a delicate situation, and an ill-advised move might have thrown the two forces into conflict. The next day marked the opening of the congress of the Philippine revolutionary government at Malolos. This town is about twenty-five miles north of Manila and is the place where Aguinaldo has set up his presidency. Several Americans attended the event. The train from Manila was jammed with natives, and many prominent merchants and lawyers were on board. About eighty delegates from different areas of the Philippine Islands arrived in Malolos to represent their various districts. The town was festively decorated with colorful insurgent flags. Any design that remotely resembled the red and blue colors of the true banner was made to serve the purpose, and every native hut had its rudely fashioned flag floating out from the banana and palm trees. The first meeting of the congress was held in a church. The session was short and unimpressive. Emilio Aguinaldo, in swallow tail and a dazzling shirt front, called the meeting to order, read his address and then retired. The session was adjourned until the following day in order to give the members time to discuss the articles of the new constitution. Through the courtesy of Aguinaldo, a lunch was served to the American newspapermen and the United States Consul. Speeches were made by members of the new Philippine congress, and every expression of friendship was offered. It was hard to realize that only the day before we had pushed the insurgents out of Manila. There were boisterous shouts of “Vivos Americanos” and the guests were made to feel that they were among friends. At one point during the luncheon, a Spaniard who was connected with a business house in Manila was arrested nearby for attempting to arouse anger against the United States. He had been circulating wild stories, hoping to inflame ignorant tribesmen into attacking the Americans. Aguinaldo’s quarters were in an old convent that had been converted into a building

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of considerable splendor. It was here that he received delegates and friends—always with that serene, implacable look which is so peculiar to him.

In an interesting letter to the Boston Globe, Harry W. McCauley, First Colorado Volunteer Infantry, described daily life in Manila, and the Americanization of the Filipino businessman. September 21, 1898 Trade here is booming! It was only after the American victory that the inhabitants faced the inevitable and ceased talking about Spanish honor and valor long enough to hoe yams, make horseshoes, dust shop counters, pull teeth, and prescribe doses of quinine or paregoric. Although both the Spaniards and natives dislike hard work, the sudden opportunity to earn American dollars was sufficient inducement for them to go into the business of acquiring our money for their goods and services. With almost Yankee shrewdness, the price on everything has gone up. Before sailing from San Francisco, we read all available articles on Manila and the Philippine Islands. I learned, for example, that no business was transacted during the afternoon because of the stifling heat—and that cows grew no larger than goats. American soldiers who read these monographs on “life in Manila” can laugh at the contrasts between what was written and life as we found it. It is only fair to state, however, that there has been a great deal of sickness among the troops as some writers predicted would be the case. Dysentery and malarial fevers have claimed a number of victims, and the hospitals are overflowing with very ill men. But no one should be surprised at this state of affairs, for after weeks of service in the trenches, with unprotected exposure to drenching rains and torrid heat, even the strongest soldier can succumb to these diseases. Ever since we have been on garrison service in Manila, the strenuous morning drills and frequent outpost duty have also taken their toll on the troops. As far as life in Manila is concerned, you can walk about the streets in relative comfort—despite the heat—as long as you wear a hat and walk slow. The thermometer does not indicate the actual amount of suffering from the hot, humid weather. At times, the humidity is so high that clothing does not dry. Europeans, living in the city, are constantly telling newly arrived American soldiers that they must take life slower over here and learn the lesson of “manana” by putting off until tomorrow what does not have to be done today. However, while the Filipinos are having the satisfaction of seeing the U.S. troops conform gradually to the ways of the city, our soldiers are not blind to the fact that Manila is trying to be as American as possible in order to capture the army and navy trade. One enterprising native for many years had scratched out a meager living serving milk, chocolate, rolls and butter in his little shop on the main street. Then, when the Americans came, he changed the sign above his store from “Despacho de Leche” (Milk Depot) to “American Restraunt.” But, although his spelling was bad, the food was good and the chairs around his three small tables are always full. In order to attract another class of Americans, a portly German woman opened a wine room in her home and hung out a sign that read “United States Drink Shop.” And, along

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the banks of the Pasig River, an Austrian, who said that he had been in the saloon business here for eighteen years without making a decent profit, put up a sign reading “All Kinds of American Drinks Sold Here.” His customer response was so great that he added ham, tongue, and cheese sandwiches to the menu and now has an impressive bank account. As further evidence of American culture taking over the city, the Manila streetcar workers went on strike the other day, and bitter negotiations are now taking place. Last week, Aguinaldo, and eighty of his representatives from different provinces, held a meeting at Malolos. A number of Americans were invited and were received very hospitably by the Filipinos. The outcome is that the so-called Philippine Republic is in full swing, and Aguinaldo’s Good Government Club will have an opportunity to see what it can accomplish among its own people for peace and progress—provided it does not conflict with the U.S. military authorities. But, although everything appears peaceful, there is an undercurrent of friction seething beneath the surface. One incident was reported by Colonel Henry McCoy. He learned that Emilio Aguinaldo had opened a recruiting office in a private home in the San Sebastian district. McCoy immediately ordered the arrest of all concerned with the operation. More than twenty people were seized and jailed in the Colorado guardhouse. I seriously doubt if this will be the last occurrence of this kind. In Manila, you can cut the tension with a knife.

A letter from Private William J. Henderson, Company B, Twenty-third U.S. Infantry, tells an interesting story of army life in Manila after the Spanish surrendered the city. October 5, 1898 Since my last letter, I have been a pretty sick man from dysentery and malarial fever. I am a wreck physically, but am picking up some. However, it came near to fixing me for good. Our boys are dying off rapidly in this gigantic crapping can from lack of proper care and incompetent medical attention. The War Department itself is rotten to the core. Too many “favorite sons” lounging around in their fancy white uniforms, living off the fat of the land, while the enlisted men swelter in crowded quarters without much of anything to eat. Tell that high-toned man Coxey that any soldier stationed in this hell hole who can eat salt pork for breakfast every day is considered a high liver. That’s because the salt pork we get here is a luxury—even if it is crawling with worms! At present, I am on guard duty at the Manila post office. This is quite a mail center, being the distribution point for all the islands. There is a small force of railroad mail clerks running the place. They were sent here from some jerkwater roads in California and Oregon, but don’t have much work to do until a boatload of mail arrives. Then it’s fun to watch them rushing around—not being used to handling such large volumes of mail as we receive. They get busier than a cat trying to cover up two piles of crap. A number of Filipinos and Spaniards also work as mail clerks, and there are a couple of hundred native carriers. I understand that the U.S. Government pays the carriers for each letter and parcel delivered. We only get mail about twice a month, and the newspapers I receive are at least that

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old, but I still read them over and over—even the ads. I wish I could get some issues of Puck or Judge. Anything you can send in that line would be gratefully appreciated. Ed Finnegan is Sergeant of Police. His station is about four blocks from the post office. He holds police court every morning and passes sentences and collects fines. Earlier today, I saw a few of his men dragging a Spanish officer up the street. Everyone has to watch their steps around here these days. There seems to be a lot of tension building between the Americans and Filipinos. Last evening, a sentry at the Isabel gate arrested a native who refused to have his package inspected. It was forcefully searched, and a bag of rice was found to contain a small axe. The fellow was hauled off to the Anda Street prison. Ed is not looking well lately. But then, this is no place for a white man unless he has money, and can afford to live in the suburbs or country. Manila is so overcrowded, and the people so filthy, that the city is reeking with disease. So far this week, our regiment has lost five men from smallpox, including three friends of mine—Steve Roddy, Walter Berdine, and Elmer Vaughn. If a vote was taken today, among the soldiers over here, I feel confident that the results would overwhelmingly favor our relinquishing the Philippines—except possibly for commerce and coaling stations.

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Fanning the Fires of War: Charles Mabey’s Story On August 30, 1898, General Merritt sailed for Paris to attend the peace talks between the United States and Spain. He was relieved by General Elwell S. Otis, U.S. Volunteers. Otis was faced with an immediate problem. Blockhouses that had been the main Spanish line of defense were allowed to fall into the hands of the Filipino insurgents who quickly converted them into heavily armed forts. The blockhouses—about a mile apart—were numbered north to south and extended from the northern outskirts of Manila to a couple of miles south of Malate. Four of the blockhouses—numbers 8, 10, 11, and 12—were within the American lines on both sides of the Pasig River. General Otis immediately set up a defense perimeter. He divided his regiments into two divisions of two brigades each. General Thomas Anderson was placed in command of the First Division and covered the area south of the Pasig River. Anderson’s First Brigade, under General Charles King, comprised the California, Washington, Idaho, and Wyoming volunteer regiments and patrolled a line stretching from the river to Blockhouse No. 12. The Second Brigade was commanded by General Samuel Ovenshine and included the Fourteenth U.S. Infantry, six troops of the Fourth U.S. Cavalry, and the First North Dakota Volunteer Regiment. Ovenshine’s brigade covered the region from Blockhouse No. 12 to Malate. In reserve, Anderson kept two batteries of the Sixth U.S. Artillery, four guns of the Astor Battery, and a company of engineers acting as infantry. The Second Division was commanded by General Arthur MacArthur and covered the territory north of the Pasig River. MacArthur’s First Brigade, under General Harrison Gray Otis, consisted of the Twentieth Kansas, First Montana, and Tenth Pennsylvania volunteer regiments, and the Third U.S. Artillery. The

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The Nebraska Camp and the San Juan River Bridge February 2, 1899

brigade’s line extended from the outskirts of Manila to 400 yards southwest of Blockhouse No. 4. The Second Brigade, commanded by General Irving Hale, was comprised of the First South Dakota, First Colorado, and First Nebraska volunteer regiments, and the Utah Artillery. Hale’s brigade patrolled the area between Blockhouses numbers 4 to 8, near the junction of the Pasig and San Juan rivers. The South Dakota soldiers were stationed near Blockhouse No. 5, while the Colorado regiment covered Blockhouse No. 6. The Nebraska troops were aligned opposite Blockhouses numbers 7 and 8.

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America at War Blockhouses and Church Defending the Approaches to Caloocan

Meanwhile, Emilio Aguinaldo was still boiling over the way he had been treated by the Americans, and on September 9, 1898, he withdrew with his staff to Malolos, about twenty-five miles north of Manila, where he established his own Philippine Republic. Aguinaldo immediately proceeded to levy taxes, issue proclamations, and placed travel restrictions on all Americans. The publication La Independencia became the official newspaper of his self-styled republic. The tabloid continually

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denounced the United States and called upon the populace to take up arms against the Americans. The walls of public buildings were plastered with posters, signed by Emilio Aguinaldo, and asserting the rights of the Filipinos to their independence. Throughout the autumn of 1898 relations between the U.S. Army and the Filipinos continued to worsen. The signing of the Treaty of Paris on December 10, 1898, between the United States and Spain—ceding the Philippine Islands to the United States for 20 million dollars—only served to aggravate an already tense situation. In January 1899 several minor incidents occurred when Americans strayed across the insurgent lines. And, in order to avoid further happenings of this kind, General Otis ordered that no soldiers were allowed to go outside the territory bounded by U.S. Army outposts. Meanwhile, American defenses were also strengthened. Four guns of Battery A, Utah Artillery, under Lieutenant William C. Webb, were assigned to the Nebraska camp. In his memoirs Sergeant Charles R. Mabey of Battery A recalled: “There were repeated war alarms, and men not on duty were restricted to barracks. The insurgents, who controlled the Manila pumping station, often shut off the city’s water supply. It was an insolent challenge, and an indication of what they could do. The Filipinos were also observed constructing new entrenchments and reinforcing the old ones. “The Santa Mesa Road was looked upon by the insurgents as the gateway to Manila. It was at the San Juan del Monte bridge crossing that they had fought many a battle against the Spanish. In fact, one of our artillery pieces now occupied the very gun-pit used by the Spaniards. “The Filipinos seemed anxious to provoke us into a hostile act, and strict orders were issued to prevent any action on our part. Night after night they would cluster at the east end of the bridge and shout curses at our silent outpost. “One insurgent officer was particularly abusive. He would gather a crowd of drunken natives, and they would march down to the bridge for the purpose of harassing and scoffing at us. They were encouraged by the apparently submissive attitude of the Americans, whom they had begun to look upon as cowards. “On the evening of 4 February, Private Willie Grayson, Nebraska Regiment, was on guard duty at the bridge. At 8:30 P.M., the obnoxious officer and his pals, shouting the usual insults, assembled on the riverbank and proceeded to cross the span. Grayson called for the Filipinos to halt, but they kept advancing. Once again Grayson shouted, ‘Halt!’ The demand fell on deaf ears. The unruly mob pushed forward—all the while screaming drunken tirades at the lone sentry. “Willie nervously pointed his rifle at the inciting officer. He never heard the gun go off. The sound of the shot cracked the air like breaking glass, and gunfire immediately erupted all along the line. “The sound of the first shot had barely ceased to echo across the hills, when a large group of Filipinos, screaming at the top of their lungs, began a dash

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across the bridge. Their onrush was met and stopped by heavy volley fire from the Nebraskans. “Trouble had been anticipated, and every officer knew what section of the American line his unit had been assigned to defend. But, every Filipino dwelling suddenly became a fort. Our troops and wagons were continually fired upon from huts and buildings.” Ten minutes after the news of the outbreak of hostilities reached Manila Headquarters, the Utah Artillery was split up and ordered to different parts of the field. Three pieces, under Major Frank A. Grant, rushed out into the night and immediately came under vigorous fire from the woods near Caloocan. Captain E. A. Wedgewood, with two pieces, hurried to his assignment near Sampaloc. Lieutenant George A. Seaman and one gun covered the Caloocan Road. Lieutenant Webb’s unit took a position on a hill overlooking the Santa Mesa Road and the San Juan del Monte Bridge. Lieutenant George W. Gibbs and two pieces were held in reserve at the Nebraska camp. Sergeant Mabey stated: “In the darkness, it was impossible for the Utah detachments to accomplish anything, as the location of our infantry and the Filipinos, could not be exactly determined. Throughout the night, we struggled to get our pieces correctly positioned, so that they could participate in any dawn action.” Upon hearing the news of the attack on his troops by the Americans, Emilio Aguinaldo immediately issued a declaration of war against the United States. “It is my duty to maintain the integrity of our national honor, and that of the army so unjustly attacked by those, who posing as our friends, attempt to dominate us in place of the Spaniards. “Therefore, for the defense of the nation entrusted to me, I hereby order and command: Peace and friendly relations between the Philippine Republic and the American army of occupation are broken—and the latter will be treated as enemies with the limits prescribed by the laws of war.” Mabey continued: “Just as the first streaks of dawn dappled the eastern sky, the Filipinos made another frantic rush to cross the San Juan bridge. Webb’s two guns belched fire, driving the natives back with heavy casualties. The insurgents then hauled an artillery piece into position on the bridge, but before firing a shot it was blown into the water by one well-directed shell from the Utah Battery. “The Filipinos, however, quickly calibrated the range. Suddenly, from the east bank of the San Juan River and Blockhouse No. 7, a barrage of Mauser bullets riddled Lieutenant Webb’s location. Two Utah gunners were killed— Corporal John G. Young was shot through the lungs, and Private Wilhelm G. Goodman received a fatal head wound.” In order to relieve the pressure on Webb’s artillery unit, Colonel John Stotsenburg, commanding two Nebraska companies, stormed and captured the blockhouse. Shortly before 11 A.M., Lieutenant Gibbs, with a battery of two Nordenfelt

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guns, was ordered to the Santa Mesa Road where he joined Stotsenburg’s detachment and a battalion of First Tennessee volunteers commanded by Colonel William C. Smith. Gibbs’ unit, followed by the Nebraska and Tennessee troops, advanced up the Santa Mesa Road toward the San Juan Bridge. Mabey narrated: “The insurgents were in force in the woods to the right. And, as our guns moved forward, we came under heavy rifle fire. Gibbs’ and his battery dashed up the road, and went into action as they reached the bridge. The infantry followed—running about thirty yards at a time. They met with stiff resistance but worked their way across the bridge under heavy fire. “After a half hour of brisk fighting, the Filipinos withdrew into the jungle. Colonel Smith rapidly deployed his battalion to the left and captured the reservoir. Then, leaving Gibbs’ battery and the Nebraska companies to guard the reservoir, Smith and the Tennessee battalion cleared the woods to the south.” As soon as it became dark, Lieutenant Webb moved his battery down from the hill and joined George Gibbs at the reservoir. An attack on the waterworks and pumping station was planned for the morning. It was imperative to capture the station before the Filipinos had a chance to destroy the machinery. Additional troops were requested for the assault, and two companies of Colorado volunteers arrived just before daybreak. Charles Mabey remarked: “Colonel Stotsenburg was placed in command of the attack. When we moved out in the morning, a straggling line of infantry deployed on either side of the road. The Colorado boys were the advance guard, and two batteries of Utah Artillery, under Major Richard Young, brought up the rear. Our right flank was protected by the Tennessee battalion, and companies of the Twenty-third U.S. Infantry guarded the left. “We had scarcely marched a mile, when the Colorado troops were fired upon. But, after a brief skirmish, the enemy disappeared into the safe shelter of a cluster of bamboo thickets. Two similar incidents occurred farther up the road. “About halfway to the waterworks, the mutilated body of Doctor Harry A. Young was discovered at the foot of a hill. The carcass of his horse was found close by. All the clothing had been ripped from the doctor’s body. A bullet hole in his forehead and a bolo wound from his left arm to the waist told the tragic story of how he died. Twelve empty revolver cartridges were on the ground near the body—evidence of the fight he put up. Doctor Young had evidently strayed into enemy territory while on his way to a meeting at the reservoir.” Stotsenburg’s infantry line slowly pushed the Filipinos back and by late afternoon his troops had reached the heights above the Mariquina valley. The Utah Artillery was placed in position and, using the Mariquina church steeple as a reference point, began to bombard the village. Meanwhile, near Sampaloc, the Utah battery commanded by Captain E. A. Wedgewood came under scattered fire from Blockhouse No. 5—about 300 yards distant—and a small stone church and cemetery. About 3 A.M. Wedgewood moved his pieces to a protected area of the cemetery and waited for dawn to arrive. As soon as the first rays of daylight appeared

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in the east, Wedgewood gave the orders to commence firing. At the same time a battalion of Colorado infantry advanced on the blockhouse and church. A couple of well-directed shells from the artillery sent the Filipinos fleeing from the blockhouse, and a few more shots leveled the church. As the insurgents attempted to escape, they were cut down by the infantry. Corporal Selman Watson, First Colorado Volunteer Infantry, described the typical blockhouse: “It is just what the name indicates—a blockhouse. Posts are set firmly in the ground, and at a height of seven feet. This open space is boarded up, and a bank of dirt and stones is piled to the top. A wood floor is then built— covering the top of the posts—and forming a platform fifteen feet square. Large posts are erected at each corner, and two more on each side, leaving a small space between the two sets of uprights. The inside and outside posts are walled in, and a narrow gun slit cut for each side of the room. The space between the walls is filled with cement. “The roof is constructed of hardwood rafters and covered with galvanized metal. A square attic-hole is positioned in the center of the ceiling. A lookout tower—large enough to hold about eight men—is built over the opening. This kind of building serves as an adequate fort, as long as there is no artillery to challenge it.” The blockhouses still in enemy hands had to be destroyed, and Captain Wedgewood’s battery was directed to support infantry attacks on two more of the strongholds. Wedgewood turned his attention to Blockhouse No. 4—about 1,700 yards distant. After a few on-target salvos, the Filipinos abandoned the structure and were chased into the jungle by a company of the First South Dakota Volunteer Infantry. Blockhouse No. 6 was next on the agenda, but before the artillery could be brought to bear, the defenders were observed running into the woods. Lieutenant George Seaman, astride the Caloocan Road, was perfectly positioned to cut off the insurgent’s northern escape route. Charles Mabey stated: “Seaman had his hands full attempting to stop the flood of enemy soldiers trying to reach Caloocan. He sent for help, and Major Young rushed to his aid with a Nordenfelt battery. “The fleeing Filipinos continually charged Seaman’s artillery—only to be driven back with heavy losses. The attacks stopped at daybreak, but the insurgents could still be heard moving through the woods and bamboo groves. Surprisingly, Lieutenant Seaman’s battery suffered only two casualties—Sergeant George Wardlaw and Private Peter Anderson were wounded.” In the meantime, Major Frank Grant’s battery was having difficulty trying to give support to the Tenth Pennsylvania and South Dakota regiments. The Filipinos resisted the American advance with fanatical frenzy, and Grant’s artillery was unable to keep up with the infantry. The clouds of smoke from burning huts often obstructed the Utah gunners from obtaining the correct range on the enemy. In his report of the action Major Grant remarked: “After advancing 400 yards,

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we rejoined the infantry line but then found ourselves in a dangerous position on the road. We were caught out in the open and for a half hour came under heavy fire from the insurgents. Minutes later, I received word that a Pennsylvania company on the left flank had been cut off. I sent Captain John Critchlow with one piece to its assistance. Our other guns pounded the woods ahead of the advancing infantry—clearing the way for the Pennsylvania and South Dakota troops.” Meanwhile, on a hill to the left of the Nebraska regiment, a large group of Filipinos had occupied the La Loma church and nearby Chinese cemetery. Their sniper fire was becoming troublesome, and the enemy position had to be taken. Lieutenant Seaman’s battery was sent to reinforce an infantry attack on the church compound. As the Nebraskans fought their way up the hillside toward the cemetery, the Utah guns ripped up the barbed wire defenses ahead of the advancing infantry. The snipers fled and took refuge in the church. On the Nebraska flanks, troops of the Twentieth Kansas—commanded by Colonel Frederick Funston—plus companies of the First Montana and Tenth Pennsylvania moved up the hill toward the La Loma church. They were supported by two guns of the Third U.S. Artillery. After a few salvos, the Filipinos attempted to flee the church, but came under heavy infantry fire as they dashed out into the open. The following morning, Lieutenant Seaman’s Utah battery received orders to support troops of the Twentieth Kansas in their attack on Blockhouse No. 1. Sergeant Mabey stated: “As the swift moving column charged the enemy’s defenses, our artillery ripped large holes in the wooden structure and destroyed its surrounding earthworks. The insurgents quickly abandoned their positions and withdrew toward Caloocan. But now, just as Colonel Funston made ready for an assault on the city, word came from General MacArthur to halt our advance. This was a shock to all of us, as the church spires of Caloocan were almost in sight. One headquarter’s officer said that MacArthur feared his line was getting too thin. This did not sit well with Funston. He could have captured Caloocan— with its locomotives and railway cars—by nightfall. “By waiting a few days to resume our march north, the insurgents had time to bulwark themselves behind new entrenchments and use the railroad to move more troops into the city. This decision would end up costing additional American lives.” While General Irving Hale’s brigade waited for orders to attack Caloocan, trainloads of armed Filipinos were observed pouring into the city. With his military advantage now rapidly deteriorating, General Elwell Otis realized that he could not wait any longer. He decided to capture the enemy stronghold as soon as possible. But Otis was also aware of the fact that he did not have enough artillery to drive the Filipinos from their defensive positions. Therefore, he requested the assistance of Admiral Dewey. On the afternoon of February 10, the USS. Monadnock and USS. Charleston bombarded Caloocan from the sea. While at the same time the Utah batteries

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of George Seaman and Frank Grant—plus the Sixth U.S. Artillery—joined in the attack. Charles Mabey described the action: “The naval bombardment was our signal to open fire. We pounded shell after shell into the insurgent defenses and sent shrapnel singing into the woods surrounding the town. Under the somewhat ineffectual but loudly thundering labors of the fleet, the Kansas, Montana and Idaho regiments moved forward on a wide front. They were supported by a troop of Fourth Cavalry and the Third U.S. Artillery as infantry. “The Filipinos were soon forced to retreat. As they withdrew, our guns were aimed higher, and several shells accidently slammed into the city. Lieutenant Seaman noticed a small group of insurgents attempting to reinforce their entrenchments at the entrance to the Caloocan cemetery. He directed one gun to knock out the enemy position. When the smoke cleared away, many bodies and weapons littered the ground.” Major J. F. Bell, of the First Montana Regiment, attempting to take advantage of the confusion, sneaked a company through a deep ravine. He intended to attack the left flank of the Filipinos but was discovered and came under heavy fire. A Utah battery came to the rescue, forcing the insurgents into the woods, as Bell’s troops dashed north to cut them off. By 6 P.M., Caloocan and the Manila-Dagupan Railroad were in American hands. MacArthur planned to attack Malabon the next day, but the Filipinos had already abandoned the town and burned most of the buildings to the ground. Lieutenant Seaman moved his battery to a hillside where he commanded a view of the causeway between Caloocan and Malabon. He was soon joined by Sergeant John Boshard’s mortar squad and two guns of the Sixth U.S. Artillery. Sergeant Mabey narrated: “It was about this time that a Philippine delegation, carrying a white flag, approached the Kansas line and asked to speak with Colonel Funston. They wished to arrange a ten-day cease fire in order to try and negotiate a peaceful solution to the war. Funston was suspicious of their intentions but agreed to the truce period. “The cease fire held, except for an occasional gunfire duel in the vicinity of the railroad tracks. But the delay also gave the insurgents valuable time to regroup their forces. The truce no sooner ended than Aguinaldo added guerrilla tactics to his arsenal of strategy. “As General Hale was consolidating his position north of the Pasig River, the enemy began a series of hit-and-run attacks. On 23 February, a large force of insurgents rushed down from the hills. They ambushed several outposts and established themselves within 150 yards of our lines. At dark, a small group of Filipinos sneaked past the Kansas sentries and set fire to the Tondo district of Manila. This was the signal for the insurgents to launch a guerrilla-style attack. “While the Tondo was engulfed in flames, the insurgents attacked American barracks and other facilities. There were many hand-to-hand skirmishes before order was restored. The enemy lost more than a hundred men, while the Kansas and Montana regiments suffered 60 casualties. The Utah Artillery did not escape

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the guerrilla rampage—Lieutenant George Seaman, Corporal Henry Souther, and Private Charles Hill were slightly wounded. “By this stage of the campaign, the Utah batteries had acquired a number of additional artillery pieces, including mountain guns, several Maxim Nordenfelts, a Colt machine gun, and a number of Gatling guns of various calibers.” Meanwhile, as General Harrison Otis waited for orders to continue his push north, Lieutenants Gibbs and Webb positioned their guns on a hill overlooking the village of Mariquina, the valley, and the waterworks. Charles Mabey recalled: “Our infantry force was not large enough to control the region, and the insurgents constantly sneaked down from the hills and waylaid American soldiers. On several occasions, it was necessary for our troops to sweep the valley and drive the Filipinos back into the foothills, only to find them returning by nightfall and their campfires laughing at us. “Finally, on 25 March, a battalion of the First Colorado Regiment was ordered into the valley. After dislodging the enemy, the soldiers set fire to the village. From that time on, the insurgents seldom returned to the area. Only the white, shining church steeple stood out like a deserted beacon above the blackened ruins—a ghostly monument to the handiwork of war.”

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Letters from the Front In March 1899, after completing a three month assignment in India, John T. McCutcheon returned to Manila and sent the following dispatch to the Chicago Record. March 19, 1899 When the Esmeralda arrived yesterday morning from Hong Kong, after surviving a storm in the China Sea, I went ashore and had barely reached the Hotel Oriente, when I learned that General Wheaton’s command had been in a battle near Taguig. Reports indicated that the fighting was still going on. Taguig is at the junction of the Pasig River and the lake—about ten miles from the center of Manila. It has been the scene of several skirmishes lately. Another newspaper reporter and I headed immediately for the trouble zone. The streets of Manila were almost deserted, and there was a stillness about the town that contrasted strongly with the situation that existed here a few months ago. Manila was a thriving city then. The economy was booming and the optimists firmly believed that hostilities between the Americans and the insurgents were highly improbable. But now the die has been cast, and each day for the past month and a half has told a tale of war and death. As we finally left the limits of the suburbs and reached the lonely roads through the rice fields southeast of Paco, we encountered an occasional soldier and listened to horrifying stories of the fighting at the front. The first report we heard was that eighty Americans had been captured and many others killed and wounded. Another soldier told us that our prisoners of the insurgents had been subjected to inhuman torture. We left our vehicle at San Pedro Macati and acquired tough little ponies for the remainder of the trip. A short time later, we passed the American trenches and rode on to intercept General Wheaton’s command. His brigade was supposed to be on the shores of the lake about three miles farther on. When we reached the Pasig ferry, there was a

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hospital corps unit waiting for the wounded and dead coming down the river in launches. One boat had already gone on to Manila with twenty wounded men from the skirmish of the night before. We were informed that General Wheaton’s headquarters was about a mile beyond the ferry landing. A short ride soon brought us to a line of bullock carts and a bivouac area. It was here that we found the general. His command post was a palm-thatched hut on a little slope at the side of the road. General Wheaton had just returned from the front. He was in his undershirt and a soiled service-beaten pair of khaki trousers. His face showed the effects of the fighting over the past week, and we could tell he was very tired. But nevertheless, he was carefully studying a map of the lake district and discussing further movements with his staff. The general was flushed with the success of the day’s work. His troops had routed the enemy and chased them fifteen miles down the lake shore. During their retreat, the insurgents burned every village that they passed through. General Wheaton strikes me as being a tough fighter without frills. His policy is to storm in and mow a clean swath in any direction, and the work seems to agree with him. The American army has now divided the insurgent forces north of Manila from those south of the city, making communication between the divided forces difficult. Our gunboats control the lake, and our Navy commands the bay. It is almost impossible for them to join without making a long and difficult march around the eastern shore of the lake. It is believed that the only military operation that will have a decisive effect on the war will be a major drive north toward Malolos and San Fernando, but at present there are not enough American troops in the Philippines to do the job. Additional regiments are on the way from the United States. There is a feeling here, however, that at least 60,000 soldiers will be necessary to protect Manila and to form powerful flying columns north and south of the Pasig River. If the insurgents can be driven from the large cultivated valley, which runs north through the island, and chased into the mountains, it is thought that their zeal for war will soon subside.

In a letter to his parents, Private Edwin Segerstrom, Company K, First Colorado Volunteer Regiment, wrote of his impressions of the Mariquina Valley. March 20, 1899 Our Regiment arrived here a few days ago to protect the waterworks. We are camped on the edge of a bluff overlooking a beautiful scene. Spread like a green blanket below us is a magnificent valley, six or seven miles wide. About a mile distant is the village of Mariquina. Surrounding the settlement are rich, fertile meadows of sugarcane, rice fields, watermelons, and banana groves. I raised the flaps on my tent so that any breeze is cool and pleasant and keeps the mosquitos away. Just before sunset every evening, the regimental band gives a concert. The music sounds out of place in this setting. I wonder what the natives down in the valley think of it. We see many small groups of Filipinos farming the fields. They do not appear threatening—some even tip their hats as we pass by. But you can’t trust them. They may act friendly during the day, but many turn into savages at night. Some of the men are talking about panning for gold in the San Mateo River. Rumors are making the rounds that there is plenty of it around here. I met a soldier from the

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Montana regiment who said that the boys out on the line were getting color in their pans. I’ll bet there is a lot of gold in the headwaters of the San Mateo. If I live through this campaign, I may have a chance to try my luck.

In two letters addressed to his sister, Corporal Selman Watson, Company E, First Colorado Volunteer Regiment, described army life on the Mariquina heights and his battalion’s valley campaign. March 23, 1899 I understand that the newspapers report our fight at Manila didn’t amount to much. Well, the know-it-alls are wrong—this war isn’t over yet. We are still in the field, sleeping in dog tents and being used for target practice by the insurgents. We have been slowly but surely heading away from Manila and into the foothills where the hot sun has a square shot at us. Since this war started, I have tanned where there are no whiskers, then burned, and now my face is peeling from the eyebrows down. The other morning, we received orders to roll tents and blankets and prepare to move out immediately after breakfast. Everyone had thought that we would remain here awhile, so several of us fanned out to scavenge nearby deserted houses. I brought back sections of bamboo planking for tent flooring and cut long poles for an awning. Each man fixed up his “dog kennel” the best he knew how. Some of the results showed definite architectural ingenuity. But all our efforts went for naught. We had no sooner made the Company E campsite the talk of the regiment, than moving orders were issued. At 10 A.M. the next day, we took up the march again and headed in the direction of the pumping station. Just before reaching the station, however, we turned squarely to the left and followed a new road that had been cut across the rice paddies. We stayed on this path for a couple of miles, then joined up with the rest of our battalion at the outposts covering the Mariquina Valley. By this time it was noon, and, since we only expected about a three hour march, no rations had been issued. At 2 P.M., we were moved 200 yards up the slope of a high hill. Here on an open space, with no shade, Company E was ordered to pitch its tents. This location was the farthest out of any American company between Mariquina on the right and Caloocan to the left. As with our other campsite, there was plenty of dry bamboo available, but water was a problem. There was only one spring nearly a half mile down the valley. We had to haul water to the kitchen and also hike to the spring to fill our canteens. The valley is dotted and crossed by hedges of palm, bamboo and tropical shrubs. Houses, made of bamboo, mark the individual farms and gardens. Light green patches of sugarcane stand out against the dark foliage of trees, while the grass is a different shade from either. On the other side of the valley, a range of tall, blue mountains stretch into the distance. Company M camped near a sugarcane patch. Some of the boys found an old cane press. They cleaned up the vat, and now we have molasses with our bread. Wild chickens are everywhere. They fly like pigeons for about 400 yards—then drop to the ground. We managed to catch a few and cooked them with native sweet potatoes and sugarcane. As you can tell, we really live high on the hog out here when not fighting the insurgents. It is frustrating, however, that we cannot set foot outside our camp without attracting enemy rifle fire. Mauser bullets can strike a mark at two thousand yards, while our

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Springfields were lucky to reach half that distance. The cunning insurgents had constructed their entrenchments out of range of our bullets, and we had to rely on batteries of the Utah Artillery to bombard the Filipino positions. This situation ended yesterday when each company in our battalion received twentyfive Krag-Jorgenson rifles—caliber .30–40. We are now on an equal footing with the enemy. Last night about sunset, and again this morning, our Krags surprised a squad of insurgents patrolling near their front lines. The Filipinos hurriedly moved to a line of trenches out of range of of our rifles. When not on outpost duty, we are kept busy with what we call “fatigue work,” such as cleaning the campsite, chopping wood, digging entrenchments, and other relaxing chores. Sometimes when I come off night guard, I am immediately put on the day’s fatigue list, then on outpost duty that night. As you can see, my spare time is limited. Not only has my letter writing suffered, but also my sleep. The only good thing about this campsite is that it is located high on a hill, where the air is purer and the early morning dew is not as heavy. And, although the smothering heat down in the valley is hot enough to melt brass, a light breeze always blows at this altitude. But it seems that we still spend most of our time every day hunting shade and fighting a losing battle to keep cool.

April 6, 1899 Tired, footsore and cranky, I just got back to camp after sixty hours of hard campaigning. I finally have time to relax in my dog tent and answer letters that have been piling up in my absence. On the night of March 24, several insurgent sharpshooters managed to sneak up the hill to our left. They climbed trees and began sniping at our campsite. One Mauser bullet ripped through the tent next to mine and wounded Private Merton Essham. At 9 P.M., Private James Neff dashed in from his outpost and told our company commander, Captain Kyle Rucker, that the enemy was gathering in large numbers on the hill. Rucker immediately headed down to report the danger to battalion headquarters. Most of the company had already turned in for the night. I was the first person he saw with shoes on, so he told me to come along. When we reached headquarters, I learned that our battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Cassius Moses, was ill, and Captain John Stewart had been placed in charge. While Captains Rucker and Stewart were discussing the situation, I overheard them remark that a “smoker” [infantry attack] was on for the morning. As we were about to return to Company E, two bullcarts, loaded with ammunition, arrived. It was midnight by the time I finally got to bed. I was dead tired and fell into a deep sleep. At 4 A.M., I was awakened by the sound of a horseman riding into camp at a gallop. I poked my head outside the tent in time to see extra details from each company running to their outposts, doubling the number of men at each station. At daybreak, it seemed as if every tree held a sniper. Mauser bullets were zipping everywhere, striking tents and soldiers. Men came rolling out and sought safety behind the rice ridges. Our outposts quickly got into the act, pouring volley after volley into the sharpshooter positions on the hill. While, to our right, the crack-crack of the Mausers

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and louder reports of the “Long Tom” Springfields revealed that the general advance had begun. Suddenly I saw a horseman racing up the road at full gallop. He came to a quick halt in front of our camp. It was Lieutenant Colonel Moses. He shouted orders for Company E to fall in—then directed Captain Rucker to put half our company at the base of the enemy-held hill and the other half along the road. We learned that Company E would be seizing the hill to get rid of the snipers. Rucker told me to take five men and extra ammunition to Sergeant Givens and his squad on outpost duty. I got there just as Companies A and M came along. Givens and I were ordered to take our men and join the right of Company A’s line. We moved down a gulley and through a cane patch, then crossed a small open field—firing and advancing by rushes, until reaching the far side of the hill. Talk about being a target in a shooting gallery. This hike was the hottest time I have ever lived through. As we moved within the cane patch, our hats could be seen moving above the stalks. Mauser bullets cut cane and even creased a few hats, but luckily no one was hit. Givens and I were now told to take our men and establish a lookout post on the hill. We left the advancing line and started up the slope. Firing was still hot, but had ceased by the time we reached the summit. Upon climbing a large boulder, the insurgents could be seen disappearing into the woods about 600 yards distant. Limestone rocks and ledges made the top of the hill a natural fort. Sergeant Givens posted lookouts, while the rest of us relaxed and listened to the shooting going on around us. Company C relieved us at noon. Late in the day, I was put in charge of an outpost at the base of the hill. Just before dark, enemy sharpshooters began sniping at us. We promptly ducked under cover and tried to find where the bullets were coming from. But before we had a chance to discover the location, the shooting stopped. Throughout the night, the insurgents kept up this kind of sporadic firing. We spent a very uncomfortable five hours until daylight, when our detachment was sent back up the hill. We were kept busy during the morning exchanging shots with the enemy. After a couple of hours of give-and-take, the Filipinos found our range and began pouring in heavy volleys that sent us scurrying for cover. But we quickly located their position and sent the “greeting cards” right back to them. By 2 P.M., we had to send for more ammunition. The insurgents were still keeping us bottled up behind the rocks. Bullets were flying over my head every few seconds—one even took my hat off. Then, to add to this joyful vacation in the tropics, it began to rain. The shooting stopped temporarily, but we were soaked through. It was getting near supper time, and I was hungry. The rain slowed, but food would have to wait—the Mausers were on the warpath once more. It wasn’t long before we were low on ammunition again. Givens instructed each man to only fire his rifle if he was reasonably sure of a target. Minutes later, one soldier was injured when a bullet grazed his back. I put a first-aid bandage on the wound and helped him return to camp. Captain Rucker was there, and I asked him for more ammunition for our men on the hill. But Rucker said that we would be relieved before nightfall, as we were in for a big scrap in the morning. I already knew that something was up. Colonel Henry McCoy and one of General

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Hale’s aides had been on the hill during the afternoon, and I overheard them planning the attack. It was after midnight before our relief showed up. When we returned to camp, each man was issued 200 rounds of ammunition and told to get some rest. This had been the most trying day that I had ever experienced. The rain, our isolated location, and the accurate shooting of the enemy were enough to give any fellow the nervous jitters. Company E was roused before daybreak. Captain Rucker had not received any orders for an early breakfast, so we expected to start out at 6 A.M. as usual. We were just getting ready to line up for chow, when the other companies of the battalion showed up ready to go. It was a hurried meal, and not all the men had time to eat. The battalion was quickly formed in extended order and headed around the hills and into the valley. We had been on the trail for about an hour, when the distant crack of rifles told us that the advance party had met opposition. We could also hear the Twenty-third U.S. Infantry firing on our right. Within another minute, Mauser bullets were whizzing around our ears. We hurried through a canefield, halted near a stream, and fired volleys at insurgent trenches a short distance beyond the opposite bank. The Filipinos fled as we splashed across the water. The battalion stopped for 20 minutes to regroup, then continued its chase of the enemy. By the time we reached the village, it had already been burned to the ground. There was not a soul to be seen—only smouldering ashes. We moved rapidly through the town, then proceeded along the edge of the hills to prevent the firing line from being flanked. Sergeant Givens took my squad and Neff’s up the nearest hill to be lookouts. The slope was steep, muddy and slippery from the recent rains. When we finally arrived at the summit, we were dead tired and covered with slimy mud. From this location, I had a clear view of the insurgent’s trenches. We fired several volleys at them, then clambered down and struggled up another hill. Just as we stopped to catch our breath, Company E showed up. We rejoined the company and moved forward again—once more uphill. I was exhausted by now, and my legs were about to give out. Luckily, the enemy was reported to be retreating, and our battalion was ordered to return to camp—another fivemile hike. We started back under sporadic fire from the Filipino sharpshooters. The stream was crossed safely, but a couple of melon patches slowed up our return. The next morning, we were up at 3:30 A.M. By the time breakfast was ready, our tents were down, blankets rolled up in them, and thrown in a pile for a wagon to pick up. One good thing about this campaign is that we seldom have had to carry blanket rolls, and sometimes not even our haversacks. It makes marching a lot easier, but we still have plenty to tote in this hot climate. The sky was just getting light when we reached the Santa Mesa Road where the other companies of our battalion were waiting for us. The air was cool and fresh from the morning dew, so we struck up a good pace to get to our destination before the sun rose and began to heat things up. We reached the reservoir about half past five—just in time to hear the army garrison bugler blow reveille. When we halted for a short break, the canteen steward of the First Wyoming Volunteers, who had an eye for business, opened his store. Large quantities of Pabst Beer irrigated the parched throats of those with money. I was broke, so went thirsty. After a twenty minute rest, the battalion continued its trek along the road to Manila. .

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About noon, we stopped for dinner in the churchyard of the Caloocan church. It was a beautiful building at one time, but recently had been used by the enemy as a fort, which resulted in its being pounded by our artillery and guns of the fleet. The corrugated iron roof of the church had been literally perforated with bullets, along with several shell holes for ventilation. A few of the large holes in the walls were courtesy of Admiral Dewey, who had called to see if “anyone was home!” A few of us investigated the ruins. The interior of the church had not only been wrecked by shellfire but was also torn apart by our soldiers hunting for gold and other treasures. Several large sums of money were reportedly found, and the boys had been busy searching for more. I heard that one enterprising private of the Twentieth Kansas sold the metal roof of another church to a Chinaman for one American dollar. The poor Oriental had to take it down and haul it away. But before the Chinese fellow was half finished with the job, the soldier was arrested by the provost guard. It cost him many a peso for destroying church property. The maintenance shops of the Manila-Dagupan Railroad are located here. They consist of six long, narrow sheds. The roundhouse has four stalls for locomotives, with the rest of the building occupied by repair and machine shops. Tools and equipment had been left to rust, but Uncle Sam has a few men in there now, and they are slowly putting the place in shape. With the exception of the railroad buildings, post office, courthouse, and a church, everything else had been burned to the ground by the insurgents when they fled the city. At 4 P.M., we received orders to move out to a new campsite behind a line of trenches northwest of Caloocan. The hot sun had baked the earth as hard as brick, and it was tough work to drive tent pegs into the ground. By this time, however, we had learned how to make the most of our shelter tents and to build a little shade using bamboo, tree branches, and blankets. A friend of mine in the Third U.S. Artillery gave me his bed made of woven bamboo. Before we went to sleep that night, I erected our tent over it. The next morning, I discovered that the bamboo matting had pulled loose from the frame. After repairing the bed, we revamped the tent using poles 18 inches longer than regulation. This had the same effect as an awning and, at night, the breeze blowing through the openings kept us cool. About midday, the Third Artillery left camp and moved out through the woods to our front. A short time later, we heard their guns firing and knew they had found trouble. Throughout the night, and all during the day, trains kept running back and forth between Caloocan and Malolos carrying troops and supplies. One rumor making the rounds is that a major effort is underway to surround the insurgents at their next stronghold beyond Malolos. The enemy, however, is resisting stubbornly. If some of these newspaper correspondents—who complain that this war is nothing more than minor skirmishes—would come up to the firing line sometime, they would change their tune in a hurry. It is true that the Filipinos are without artillery, but their Mausers shoot straight and close—and are getting closer every day.

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The Pasig River Campaign: Jacob Kreps’ Story By the middle of March 1899, General MacArthur had extended the lines of the Second Division from Caloocan to San Pedro Macati. But before concentrating his forces on Malolos, it was necessary to drive the enemy from their entrenched positions along the banks of the Pasig River—where Filipino guerrillas had been launching nuisance raids against the vital Manila waterworks and pumping station. American regiments were continually arriving in the Philippines, and additional brigades were formed. A “Provisional Brigade,” put together by MacArthur, was composed of the Twentieth and Twenty-second U.S. Infantry Regiments, two battalions of the First Washington Volunteer Regiment, seven companies of the Second Oregon Volunteers, one battery of the Sixth U.S. Artillery, and three troops of the Fourth U.S. Cavalry. The brigade was placed under the command of General Loyd Wheaton. In his diary, Captain Jacob Kreps, Company M, Twenty-second Infantry Regiment, described the brigade’s Pasig River campaign. (This account is edited from the author’s book, Combat Diary: Episodes from the History of the TwentySecond Regiment, 1866–1905 [1991], and reprinted with permission of Greenwood Publishing Group.) Captain Kreps wrote on the water-stained pages of his journal: “On 12 March, we marched to San Pedro Macati. It began to rain before we reached our destination. Company M passed a sister regiment—the men standing on one foot, then the other, attempting to keep dry, while at the same time trying to keep a fire going and fry bacon. “After trudging across several muddy rice fields, we took our position a few hundred yards to the rear of the trenches. A short distance beyond was a church occupied by an Oregon company. This veteran outfit consoled the rookies of

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the Twenty-second with such factious remarks as, ‘You’re up against the real thing now!’ “The rain kept up most of the night. Everyone was miserable, especially the new recruits, who were experiencing their first taste of field service. Very few of the men took the trouble to put up their shelter tents, preferring to have the canvas between themselves and the ground rather than between their bodies and the weather. However, I can’t blame them. In a Philippine rainstorm, a shelter tent gives about as much protection as the same size piece of wire netting.” Beyond the American positions, but within Mauser range, rose the Guadalupe ridge, a series of low bluffs that afforded the Filipinos excellent observation sites. Jacob Kreps continued his account: “We were drenched to the skin, trying vainly to rest comfortably on the rough, muddy ground. The frowning cliffs in front of us grimly promised death or frightful wounds—possibly during the night, surely in the morning. These depressing thoughts possessed the soldiers of Company M, the majority of whom were spending the first evening of their lives in discomfort and danger. “And for the older soldiers too, this wet and soggy night had its effect. Memories of a mother or wife brought a strange choking sensation to the throat. But when this was followed by thoughts of a little daughter just old enough to remember ‘Papa’ and a son still unable to toddle alone, the agony was almost too great to bear. “The long dreary night finally drew to a close and the sun, shining in all its southern brilliance, chased away the gloomy shadows of darkness from the face of Mother Earth and from the minds of the poor boys assembled here, in soldier uniforms, for the propagation of liberty.” At six o’clock on the morning of March 13, Wheaton’s brigade moved forward by echelon, the Twenty-second Infantry and Fourth Cavalry leading the way. The terrain in front of the infantry’s advance was heavily wooded. Trees and bamboo thickets prevented a clear view of what lay ahead. Suddenly, from their concealed positions on the cliffs, the insurgents opened fire. Captain Kreps recorded the incident in his diary: “The rookies of Company M heard a whistling noise and glanced curiously at each other, wondering if it was the sound of a lizard or some other animal. Then another whistle, and the men quickly realized that they were hearing their first hostile bullets. Heads dodged; soldiers darted for the nearest cover and hugged the ground. “They later learned, that if a bullet had time to sing a solo, it would be distant—too far away to do any harm. However, if it passed with a zip, a tree, mudbank, or stone wall were handy bulwarks to have around. The vicious pellets were never alone—they always had companions following them.” The Twenty-second Infantry continued to lead the advance. Enemy bullets constantly whizzed overhead, but by now the youngsters of Company M had become accustomed to the sound and the marksmanship of the Filipinos. General Wheaton ordered the Fourth Cavalry to make a wide detour toward

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the Pasig River in case the enemy withdrew in that direction. Two companies of the Twenty-second were sent to assist the cavalry. The rest of the brigade continued to apply pressure on the enemy and soon forced the insurgents to abandon their fortified positions on the Guadalupe ridge. The Filipinos fell back, fighting stubbornly until they reached the Pasig. Many of them surrendered. Others tried to swim the river, while trying to dodge a hail of bullets. Kreps wrote: “We came upon seven Filipinos on the riverbank. They all gave up except one plucky fellow. He threw his gun into the river and plunged in himself. Although the water all around him was churned by bullets, I believe he succeeded in escaping. “We rested an hour or so, filled our canteens, and had a light lunch—damn light in my case—two spoonfuls of uncooked canned tomatoes and a radish. However, the afternoon was not a total loss—I was treated to a drink of whiskey, “After lunch, Company D was also placed under my command, and I was given orders to clear the way forward. My assignment was to occupy a series of bluffs along the river opposite the town of Pasig. The exact distance to these cliffs was not known—nor whether they were defended by the enemy. “We moved out cautiously, but evidently not fast enough for General Wheaton. He urged the rookies on with such fervor that the head of my column crowded on the heels of the advance guard. “We soon approached a stretch of road that was dangerously visible from across the river and the city of Pasig. At this point, the river formed a ‘T’ with the town on the left. The cliffs that we were to seize were located in the angle formed by the stem of the ‘T’ and the right arm of the river. “Company M had no sooner reached the road, when we were scattered by rapid fire volleys from the opposite bank. There never was a roadway paved with human bodies as quickly as this one, but miraculously nobody was hit. “About thirty yards ahead, I noticed a steep embankment perpendicular to the river. I immediately took ten volunteers and occupied the position. After summoning the rest of the company, we opened fire on the insurgents. Under cover of our barrage, I directed Lieutenant Isaac Newell and Company D to move forward and take shelter beneath the projecting lip of a cliff across the road from us. “However, we still had not accomplished our mission. I knew that the Filipinos were within gunshot range and possibly on the path ahead. Therefore, I sent Company D to skirt the high ground and come in on the flank of any enemy troops that might be dug in on the bluffs. Company M would continue to advance along the road. “We crept forward, slowly and carefully, rifles at the ready. A grove of trees soon obstructed our view but also hid us from the insurgents. The trail suddenly curved sharply, and for about a hundred yards the roadway was cut through a hill of solid rock. The stone walls rose thirty feet on both sides of the path. At the far end of the gorge, the curve straightened out and came into full view of the opposite bank.

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“I decided to take a few men and investigate. We sneaked through the cut until I noticed the enemy positions across the river. The insurgent trenches controlled this part of the road, and we soon discovered that they were manned by sharpshooters. “My troops were spotted, and several straw hats popped into view above the enemy earthworks. Each hat represented a puff of smoke—a bang—then the splatter of a bullet on the rock wall. “We quickly dashed for cover—out of sight from the enemy riflemen. That is, all except Private William Reinhardt. Several times, the youngster stepped out into the middle of the road, deliberately knelt, aimed, and fired—then ran back to the tunnel to reload. He tried this once too often, and was shot in the foot.” While General Wheaton and the rest of the “Provisional Brigade” hurried east to support Captain Kreps, Companies D and M had managed to reach the bluffs. Kreps described the action: “The shooting was brisk and accurate on the part of the Filipino sharpshooters. Two soldiers from Company D were shot through the head, and a tree, directly behind Lieutenant Newell, was struck by five bullets. “Company M had been under fire for the first time during this engagement. The men were exhausted. They slept undisturbed that night and had a good rest—surprisingly it didn’t rain.” During the morning Wheaton’s troops occupied the high ground across from Pasig. A battery of the Sixth U.S. Artillery was quickly put to work pounding the enemy defenses. One battalion of the Twenty-second, including Company M, was sent ahead toward Pateros. They attacked a large group of insurgents fleeing the bombardment and chased them beyond Taguig. The battalion then reformed and camped on the cliffs across from Pateros. The following day a battalion of the Twentieth U.S. Infantry, under Major W. P. Rogers, crossed the river and stormed Pasig. At the same time a company of the Second Oregon volunteers crossed below the town and attacked the Filipinos as they attempted to escape. Captain Kreps recorded one disturbing incident: “Previously and subsequently during this campaign, there was a great deal of looting and plundering, to the lasting disgrace of our uniform. It was rumored that some companies of the First Washington Volunteer Regiment had fifty thousand dollars on deposit in Hong Kong banks.” The insurgents were reported to be firmly entrenched in bamboo thickets across the river from Pateros. A Washington battalion, commanded by Major John Weisenburger, crossed the water in canoes and assaulted the enemy breastworks. The Filipinos were routed but torched the town as they withdrew. The Twenty-second Regiment remained in camp until 18 March. Jacob Kreps narrated: “This day [March 18] was the hottest day of my life. The heat was

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unbearable. Squads from every company were sent out to find food and water, leaving our battalion with less than 200 men available for immediate action. “Throughout the campaign, our men grudgingly accepted the hardship of life in the Philippines. Every night, heavy typhoon rains poured down on the regimental encampment—shelter tents were useless. Toward morning, officers and men, drenched and shivering, rose from their muddy beds and sat around campfires until the hot sun finally appeared and dried the clothes on their backs.” Early in the afternoon a large enemy force was reported near Taguig. They established their position on the high cliffs west of the city and attacked a nearby Washington company. Captain Kreps narrated the grim series of events that followed: “About three o’clock, our depleted battalion was placed under the command of Captain Frank Jones. We were ordered to move out and attempt to rescue the besieged company. However, our directive stated for us to proceed down to the river and move forward along the bank. I protested and asked permission to advance across the high ground. General Wheaton denied my request. I considered his order irresponsible. It would have been much safer advancing along the ridge. As it was, we could—and did—head into a trap. “Companies D, E, and G formed the front line of the battalion with Company M in reserve. After marching two miles, firing was heard. We could make out the Washington outfit delivering volleys, but there was no sign of the enemy. “Scouts suddenly brought word that there were at least eight hundred insurgents to our front. I hoped that the number was exaggerated—if correct, we were heavily outnumbered. “As we pushed on ahead, the terrain became rough and rockstrewn, then cliffs emerged on our right and left flanks. Within a few minutes we found ourselves in a horseshoe shaped depression. High ground surrounded us on all sides— except at the narrow entrance to the shoe. “The lead companies had proceeded about five hundred yards when the ‘music’ began. A hailstorm of Mauser bullets rained down on the troops. Further progress was impossible. The men dashed for cover and commenced shooting back at the enemy. But our front line was suffering heavy casualties and ammunition was beginning to run short. “Captain Jones shouted orders for the battalion to retreat from the trap and directed Company M to protect the withdrawal. However, the sudden wild, disorganized rush of men descended upon my troops so rapidly that our company became intermingled with the returning firing line. There was a great deal of confusion as the retiring soldiers crowded through the narrow opening of the horseshoe while, at the same time, we were trying to move past them to the front. During the melee, Jones was shot and I assumed command of the battalion. “It was a madhouse of frustration. We were afraid to fire at the Filipinos for fear of hitting our own troops as they fled the trap. Meanwhile, insurgent bullets pelted down on us in a pitiless shower. Three of my men were shot, including the youngest, Private Henry Johnson. “I finally managed to reform Company M as a line of skirmishers and began

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a rapid fire assault on the enemy positions. By the time that the rest of the battalion was clear of the horseshoe, the Filipinos were in full retreat. In a little more than an hour, our battalion had lost twenty men—killed or wounded.” It was nearly dark when the soldiers of Company M returned to their tents. The sun had set, and a full moon looked down upon the litter bearers hauling the dead and wounded from the battlefield. The long line of stretchers, stopping every few minutes to change carriers, dragged its slow course back to camp. Jacob Kreps was tired, bitter, and depressed after the furious battle, and he eloquently expressed his feelings in the pages of his notebook: “I searched the hospital tents until I located Henry Johnson. An enemy bullet had entered just over the left eye, and passed completely through his head. The youngster never regained consciousness. Johnson’s brief service in the army of the United States was over, but his dedication will not be soon forgotten. “The history of a soldier in the regular army, or any soldier for that matter, is the story of his organization while he is affiliated with it. “The hero is usually of newspaper manufacture and remains a hero for possibly three editions. The soldier who falls in combat needs no such notoriety. If his company or regiment never disgraces its flag—but only adds to the brightness of its colors—this honor is shared with his comrades. “However, what good is honor to Johnson now? His body lies on the island of Luzon—sacrificed to a policy not to be criticized by the soldier, but which has as its objective the subjugation of a people fighting for their liberty. “Henry Johnson died, not in defense of his country but rather because duty summoned him to that rugged, rocky spot near Laguna de Bay where the messenger of death was waiting. No sentiment nor feelings motivated his actions, only the stern obligation to flag and country, ready to meet any foe, domestic or foreign. Ready to obey the legal orders of his superiors. This is, and always will be, the function of the ‘regular soldier.’ ” Jacob F. Kreps graduated from the U.S. Army Military Academy with the Class of 1883. Of his days at the academy a classmate wrote: “A medium sized Pennsylvanian—genial, cheerful, affable—Jake was liked by his classmates. Without quirks or erratic angles, he never bothered the Superintendent or clashed with the Commandant, but attended to his job diligently, and collected no more than a proper number of demerits. As to his scholastic standing, Jake belonged to that large section of the class aptly described as without ambition and devoid of fear.” Jacob Kreps was commissioned in the Twenty-second Infantry and remained attached to that regiment throughout his more than thirty years of active military service. He died at Pacific Grove, California, in June 1939 at the age of seventyeight years.

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The Luzon Campaign: Road to Malolos The day after the Twenty-second Infantry Regiment escaped the Pasig River ambush, General Wheaton deployed his brigade south. The Twenty-second Regiment formed on the right of the line. Using the left as a pivot, the brigade attacked the enemy near Taguig and drove them down the shore of Laguna de Bay. Captain Jacob Kreps wrote: “We marched twelve miles in extended order during the swinging movement. The heat was suffocating. On the return hike, our already battered battalion valiantly endured the unrelenting sun. Men who collapsed from heat exhaustion were carried into camp by their comrades— whose condition was not much better. “Near Taguig, we could see the ghastly evidence of the previous day’s action—many bloated, foul-smelling corpses wearing insurgent uniforms, and laying in grotesque positions, showed the viciousness of the fighting. Considering the extreme care exercised by the Filipinos in removing their dead, the number still left decaying on the battlefield vividly showed the heavy losses we had inflicted upon them.” Meanwhile, Emilio Aguinaldo established his headquarters at Malolos and began to collect taxes from his “subjects.” He also convinced wealthy Filipinos to contribute to the cause of freedom. The money was quickly put to use purchasing guns and ammunition from any country willing to sell, including those supposedly friendly to the United States. With the enemy strength now estimated at thirty thousand men, General MacArthur waited impatiently for additional regiments to arrive before continuing his offensive against the followers of Aguinaldo. As fresh troops from the United States disembarked at Manila, MacArthur reorganized his Second Division. A third brigade was formed under the com-

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mand of General Robert H. Hall and comprised the First Wyoming and Thirteenth Minnesota Volunteer Regiments and the Seventeenth U.S. Infantry Regiment. Hall’s brigade was assigned to relieve the troops defending the reservoir and waterworks. Loyd Wheaton’s “Provisional Brigade” was attached to the Second Division and assigned to cover the left flank of the American line at Manila Bay. On Wheaton’s right was General Harrison Otis commanding the First Montana and Twentieth Kansas Volunteer Regiments and the Third U.S. Artillery as infantry. Covering the right flank of the division—and commanded by General Irving Hale—were the Tenth Pennsylvania, First South Dakota, and First Nebraska Volunteer Regiments. Also attached to the Second Division were four batteries of the Utah Artillery commanded by John Critchlow and George Gibbs. General Arthur MacArthur now had approximately twelve thousand men ready for the march on Malolos. General Henry Lawton replaced General Thomas Anderson as commander of the First Division and was given the task of holding the insurgents in check south of the Pasig River. As commander of a flotilla of river gunboats, Major Frank Grant received the unusual assignment of patroling the major river systems of Luzon and attacking the enemy’s flank and rear positions. MacArthur’s plan called for the brigades of Generals Harrison Otis and Irving Hale to swing around to the right and cut off Aguinaldo’s army from retreating into the island’s interior. General Wheaton’s brigade would move north along the tracks of the Manila-Dagupan Railroad, while Admiral Dewey’s fleet would cover the shoreline of Manila Bay and be available to transport troops to a point north of Malolos for an attack on the enemy’s rear if necessary. On March 25, MacArthur launched his offensive. The brigades commanded by Generals Wheaton, Otis, and Hale advanced toward Malolos. General Hall’s regiments moved down the Mariquina valley toward San Francisco del Monte. Four guns of Battery B, Utah Artillery, under Lieutenant Raymond Naylor, were attached to General Hall’s brigade. In his action report Naylor, stated: “Our position lay in a sunken road at a point where the lines of the Tenth Pennsylvania and South Dakota Regiments joined. The road had been constructed by the Spanish and ran for about 800 yards, ending at an open field. Fifty yards beyond, the insurgents had constructed a crude barricade that was used as an outpost. A hundred yards farther on, a strong line of earthworks spread out across the top of a gently rising hill. “Early on the morning of the 25th, we moved our guns along the jungle road. We worked as quietly as possible, except when one of the wheels of the heavy guns slipped into a rut. Upon reaching the open area, a squad of Tenth Pennsylvania infantry deployed as skirmishers to drive back the Filipino sentries. “Our battery was quickly rushed up to the edge of the clearing. The enemy entrenchments loomed up dark and foreboding on the crest of the hill. At the first bark of our guns the insurgents manning the outpost fled for the protection of the heavier works on the summit of the knoll. We now hurled a perfect stream

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of steel into the enemy defenses. After responding feebly for a few minutes, the Filipinos abandoned the earthworks and fled across the San Juan River toward San Francisco del Monte. We ran our guns to the riverbank, and sent flurries of shells flying after them. “It is my belief, that since our battery had advanced almost entirely without the aid of infantry, this action was purely an artillery charge, and to the Utah Artillery belongs the victory.”

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With the right flank now clear of organized enemy resistance, MacArthur’s division moved forward along all fronts—the infantry advancing about 700 yards ahead of the artillery. A strong Filipino force was soon encountered entrenched at Malinta and blocking the road to Novaliches. The South Dakota and Pennsylvania regiments came under heavy fire. Lieutenant Naylor’s battery was ordered into play and vigorously bombarded the enemy position for several minutes. The shelling was followed by a bayonet charge, and the soldiers, shouting Indian war cries, dashed across the rice fields and swarmed over the entrenchments. A news correspondent wrote in his account of the assault: “The sight behind the breastworks was appalling. Filipinos were in all attitudes of pain—their life blood seeping into the land they sought to free. Some called for water, some for cigarettes, and some for death. The rice fields are brown and unsown, but next year, how this red rain will nourish a harvest!” The rapid pace of the march, plus the scorching sun, was taking its toll on Irving Hale’s brigade. Stretcher bearers were kept busy picking up the limp bodies of men who had collapsed from the heat. General Hale swung his brigade toward the Tuliahan River and moved northwest along the south bank. He intended to cross the stream at the site of an uncompleted bridge. Hale reached the bridge at noon, but immediately fell under heavy Mauser fire from the north shore. A battery of Utah Artillery, under Major Richard Young, was brought forward. As Young scouted the area to find a safe location for his guns, he discovered that where the bridge crossed the Tuliahan, the river rose to an almost perpendicular height of nearly fifteen feet. Major Young stated: “On the right abutment of the bridge, the insurgents had built a very formidable breastwork of earth and stone. One of the bridge’s heavy steel beams was situated above the entrenchment, so as to leave a long slot for rifles, and ran the entire length of the breastwork. Below this rampart, another fortification extended about 200 feet along the riverbank and was constructed with the same skill as the other. It had a similar rifle slot flaring outward about a foot and was roofed with bamboo flooring. “The location that I selected for my battery was just under the brow of a hill. The insurgent defenses were only a hundred yards beyond, but our position was screened from view by a grove of bamboo.” The Utah battery included a Colt machine gun and was trained on the rifle slots. Young continued: “At the first rattle of the Colt, all the enemy’s attention was focused on the machine gun. Then, just as quickly, our artillery opened fire. The rapid action of the Colt prevented the Filipinos from taking accurate aim. Of the three shells fired by Corporal Don Johnson’s piece, two ripped through the rifle slots and exploded. The damage done to the breastworks was extensive, but the cost to the defenders was even greater. As the Filipinos attempted to flee, they were cut to pieces by the machine gun and shrapnel from our artillery. By the time ‘cease firing’ was called, our gun crews were exhausted. After a

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supper of hardtack and bacon, we camped for the night on the banks of the river.” Meanwhile, a battalion of the Second Oregon Volunteers, which had been advancing north along the shores of Manila Bay, ran into fierce enemy opposition between Malabon and the Tuliahan River. The Filipinos were well concealed. They held their fire until the Americans came within 200 yards—then unleashed a murderous Mauser barrage. A Utah artillery battery under Lieutenant George Gibbs was quickly called up to the front and began shelling the enemy position. As soon as the bombardment ceased, the Oregon troops, with slashing bayonets and yelling Indian war cries, rushed across the rice fields. The Filipinos panicked and fled toward Malinta. The Twenty-second U.S. Infantry Regiment, commanded by Colonel Harry C. Egbert, crossed the Tuliahan River without incident. Egbert formed his columns perpendicular to the river—intending to flank a strong enemy force dug in along the tracks of the Manila-Dagupan Railroad about 800 yards south of Malinta. The First Battalion of the Twenty-second and Lieutenant George Seaman, with one artillery piece, were sent ahead to scout the terrain. The battalion had just reached the foot of a hill when it was met with a shower of Mauser bullets coming from a large group of insurgents entrenched on the summit. As Lieutenant Seaman’s crew hurriedly brought their gun into position, Private Parker Hall was wounded. The Utah battery quickly found the enemy’s range, and salvos of shrapnel shells began exploding above the trenches. After a few minutes of deadly shelling, the Filipinos abandoned the hill and took up positions in a nearby stone church that was surrounded by a breast-high masonry wall. The terrain in front of the church had a natural slope broken only by a few rice paddies. The Mausers—in the hands of the enemy sharpshooters—had the high ground. A barrage of bullets ripped through the American battalion. The soldiers dove into whatever shelter they could find—empty trenches, rice paddies, or bamboo groves. Return volleys only seemed to increase the intensity of the enemy fire. Colonel Egbert regrouped his battalion and urged the troops forward up the hill. The first group of men reached the stone wall. It was now Krag versus Mauser at point-blank range. The gun battle raged for twenty minutes, while Egbert gathered his forces for a bayonet charge. Upon command, the Americans jumped from their protective cover. And, with Harry Egbert leading the charge, dashed like screaming demons across the churchyard. The Filipinos were routed, but Colonel Egbert was mortally wounded in the assault. The bruised and battered Twenty-second Regiment bivouacked at Malinta and waited for the Second Oregon to arrive. In the meantime General Irving Hale’s brigade had crossed the Tuliahan and moved cautiously north. About three o’clock in the afternoon scouts reported

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many enemy soldiers entrenched in bamboo groves a short distance south of Meycauayan. Colonel John Stotsenburg’s First Nebraska Regiment and a battalion of the First South Dakota were ordered to clear the road ahead. After an hour gun battle the Filipinos withdrew to the northeast and the protection of the surrounding thick jungle. The following morning Generals Hale and Otis—accompanied by the Major Richard Young’s Utah Artillery Battery and a Colt machine gun—continued their advance on Malolos. At noon the Americans were confronted by a large body of insurgents dug in on the banks of the Marilao River. The First Kansas Regiment quickly deployed to the left but was unable to flank the enemy’s position. The Filipinos had cut down every tree that obstructed their line of fire, giving them a clear view in all directions. As Major Young scouted the terrain for a safe location to set up his battery, General Funston arrived and said that he had noticed a number of cascos about a half mile downriver. And, if Young could support the Kansas regiment with artillery fire, the Kansans would attempt to cross the river and launch an assault against the enemy position. The plan was agreed upon. Young quickly set up his battery. The artillery and machine gun kept up a withering fire on the earthworks, diverting the enemy’s attention away from the native boats moving back and forth across the river with the Kansas regiment. Major Young remarked: “Our bombardment was so productive that white flags soon began to appear above some of the trenches. I called for cease firing, and the Filipinos were ordered to stand up. A few of them reluctantly showed themselves, but the others fled through a get-away ditch and vanished in a bamboo forest. “A railway bridge across a branch of the Marilao had been damaged, so I moved the artillery to a location by the tracks until it could be repaired by our engineers. “Just as night arrived, large groups of insurgents were observed emerging from the woods and creeping toward our lines. At about 2,000 yards, the quiet darkness erupted with gunfire. The fires of hell seemed to have exploded all in one place—on the banks of the Marilao. “It was impossible to distinguish between our soldiers and the enemy. I called for a few shrapnel shells to be fired at a range of 2,500 yards, hoping that our counterattacking troops had not advanced that far. Luckily, the shells exploded in the midst of the enemy, forcing their withdrawal.” In his report on the Marilao River fight, General Marcus Wright stated: “This was the first time that the Filipinos attacked in battle formation. When our order to commence firing was signaled, there was a deafening roar of field artillery, and explosions from a thousand rifles. The enemy line broke, and Aguinaldo’s troops deserted in mass confusion. “It would be ludicrous to deny that our army commanders had many anxious

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moments. The resistance of the Filipinos was stubborn, and their fighting ability has proven to be clever, courageous, and unremitting. “The conflicts were always in favor of the Americans—but without decisive results. Aguinaldo personally commanded his army with great skill. For, although defeated at every point where a stand was made, he prevented a disastrous rout and succeeded in drawing off the majority of his forces toward Malolos.” Early the next morning, March 28, MacArthur’s division resumed its march north. The Americans expected enemy resistance upon reaching Bocaue, but the Filipinos had already abandoned the city and burned it to the ground. Several frantic Chinese shopowners requested an audience with MacArthur and informed the general that the insurgents had murdered twenty of their people who protested the destruction. The Chinese also stated that the insurgents were accompanied by a large number of women and children who they intended to hold for ransom. Major Richard Young continued his account of the part played by the Utah Artillery in the Malolos campaign: “As we advanced toward Malolos, the infantry regiments had pushed some distance ahead of us. Suddenly, we heard heavy firing near the Guiguinto River. The Filipinos had set fire to the bridge and entrenched themselves in the woods east of the railroad. As soon as our brigade crossed the tracks, it was caught out in the open. The well-hidden enemy poured a withering fire into our troops. Within a couple of minutes, the Kansans had sustained thirty casualties. “I hurried our guns up to the line and immediately began shooting shrapnel shells into the insurgent positions. The enemy quickly retaliated. A flury of Mauser bullets zipped past our ears. Private John Pender was wounded. But the bombardment soon began to take effect. The Filipinos could be seen abandoning their trenches and fleeing toward Malolos, with our infantry in pursuit.” As MacArthur’s Second Division neared Malolos, Aguinaldo’s guerrilla units staged hit-and-run raids on the flanks of the American regiments. However, these nuisance attacks did little to slow the speed of MacArthur’s advance. At dusk the church steeples of Malolos came into view, and a line of menacing breastworks could be seen guarding the approaches to the city. The Utah artillery battery and Colt machine gun were moved up to a deserted line of trenches about a thousand yards from the enemy defenses. Major Young sneaked forward to find a good location for constructing an artillery emplacement. He found a satisfactory spot within a circle of bamboo trees that gave an excellent view of the city. About ten o’clock that night two dozen men of Battery B—guided by Sergeant John Anderson and carrying picks and shovels—crept quietly toward the bamboo grove. Richard Young narrated: “The ground was extremely hard and, fearing that the insurgents might hear the sounds of our digging, I posted a lookout nearby to signal us with the word ‘flash’ if we had been seen or heard.

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“We had only dug about twelve inches when the lookout suddenly called out ‘flash!’ We immediately dropped to the earth and grabbed our weapons. But there was no flurry of Mauser bullets. It was a false alarm. The lookout became rattled when he saw a restless Filipino sentry light a cigarette. “Our work was finished shortly after midnight, and just before dawn the artillery pieces were moved into position. In the meantime, General MacArthur had formed his regiments in a half-circle around the city. At daybreak, the enemy earthworks stood out in bold relief against the lightening sky. About a dozen soldiers could be seen loafing near the railroad track a couple of hundred yards in the distance.” Shortly before 8 A.M. Major Young received orders to commence firing. A moment later the sharp crack of an artillery piece shattered the early morning stillness—then another and another. With a steady rhythm the Utah battery poured shell after shell into the insurgent positions—hot shrapnel cutting a deadly path through the trenches. After a half-hour bombardment the American infantry began its advance on the city. Richard Young remarked: “The insurgents abandoned their breastworks and could be seen fleeing north. Half of our battery took the winding road into Malolos, while the other half followed the railroad. For some distance along the railway line, the Filipinos had torn up the track. At one spot, we had to replace railroad ties that had been removed and thrown into a river.” As the mud-spattered, weary soldiers of the Second Division marched cautiously down the main streets of Malolos, they commented upon the lack of opposition to their advance. Although enemy resistance had ceased, half the city had been put to the torch by the retreating Filipinos. The Utah Artillery parked their guns in the plaza across from the Hall of Congress, and General MacArthur gave Major Young the honor of raising the American flag over Malolos. Emilio Aguinaldo, however, proved to be more clever than MacArthur had supposed. The Filipino leader had foreseen the results of the general’s attack and, a few days earlier, had fled with the main body of his troops into the mountainous interior of Luzon. Only a token force was left behind to defend the city. Aguinaldo had not only managed to escape capture, but his army was still virtually intact.

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The Battle of Malolos: John Brewer’s Story John R. Brewer served with the Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry in the Philippines. His account of the Battle of Malolos is edited from his memoirs. “I will attempt to describe the maneuvers of General Arthur MacArthur’s Second Division during the closing days of March 1899. It was a bushwacking campaign from start to finish—for which the region of Luzon between Manila and Malolos is well adapted. “About every two or three miles, the land is interspersed with streams and rivers and with dense vegetation growing along their banks. Every time our line of march came within a few hundred yards of these tributaries, we found the enemy hidden in the woods along the far bank. “Crossing a stream or river while under fire was a difficult undertaking. As soon as our brigade came within range, the insurgents would open up with a barrage of bullets. But there was no wavering of our line as we moved forward in the face of a Mauser attack that few armies in the world could have withstood. Our boys pushed ahead as if they had been doing this sort of thing all their lives. “When we had advanced to within a couple of hundred yards of the enemy, a bugler sounded charge, and we would run like the devil was after us into a thick forest of trees and bamboo, only to find ourselves on the banks of another stream, with the Filipinos blazing away at us from the treeline across the water. “Mauser bullets often came at us from bridges and boats, but by the time we rushed to the location, there was no one in sight. The enemy seemed to have been swallowed up by the ground. “Every hour was the same—cross a stream, advance along a stretch of open country, come to a line of trees, exchange fire with the insurgents, then cross another stream. Repeated time after time, this kind of warfare was both monot-

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onous and frustrating—especially when the only thing you had to eat all day was a small can of salmon and two or three hardtack. There was one day when my share of rations was one hardtack and two spoons of canned beef. This was the same beef that created such a fuss back home—forty-year-old Civil War issue, most of it rotten. Not that I mean to complain, after all, this is war, and such things can’t be helped when an army is moving as fast as we are. It is nearly impossible for supply wagons to keep up with us. “Another major problem that we had to deal with was a shortage of drinkable water. The boiling sun creates a terrible thirst out here, and it wasn’t unusual for a soldier to drink three or four canteens of water a day. But, because most of the water in this area is alkaline, it is almost impossible to quench a thirst. Any man who found a freshwater well kept its location a guarded secret. “At 5 A.M., the Second Division moved out with Caloocan as the pivot. There was not much resistance at first. The enemy seemed to have been completely taken by surprise, until a glimpse or two of a straw hat peeking out from a thick bamboo grove dispelled any thoughts of a peaceful morning stroll in the islands. “We advanced eight miles the first day, capturing Novaliches about 4 P.M. The Tenth Pennsylvania was then moved left to fill a gap between the Twentieth Kansas and First Montana Regiments. In fact, our division was moving so fast that it was almost impossible for the regiments to keep in touch with each other. At one point, we lost the First South Dakota on our right and had trouble effecting a junction with the First Montana on our left. “On another occasion, the companies of our regiment became separated. Companies H and I were the only ones that Colonel Alexander Hawkins could find. The confusion was straightened out by early evening, and we went to sleep very tired, but well satisfied with the start of the campaign. “Bigaa was seized on the 29th after a short fight. We then hurried up our march as General MacArthur was anxious to get within striking distance of Malolos that night. He also changed the order of advance. The Twentieth Kansas and Tenth Pennsylvania were put on the front line. “Guiguinto was captured without firing a shot. We proceeded a few miles past the city, then crossed a stream only a couple of miles from Malolos. We expected to camp here for the night, when suddenly we were attacked on three sides. From the front, the right, and the left, the insurgents poured a rain of Mauser bullets into our ranks. Never before, or since, have I ever encountered such terrific fire. “We had been battling the Filipinos for more than an hour, when Colonel Hawkins sent Companies E and I to storm the woods to our right. As the men jumped up and charged the flank, they were exposed to enemy fire from both the front and left. Bert Armbrust and Dan Stephens of Company I were killed, and three others wounded. This movement gave the South Dakota Regiment room to deploy on the right. The Twentieth Kansas now charged the woods. The enemy line broke, and the insurgents fled in confusion toward Malolos.

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“As exhausted as we were after the vicious battle, a good night’s sleep was not in the cards. General MacArthur busily arranged his forces for the next day’s march. The Nebraskans were placed on the right of the line—then the South Dakota, Pennsylvania, Kansas, and Montana volunteer regiments, followed by the Third U.S. Artillery as infantry. “Early on the morning of the 31st, Major James Bell led a scouting party to within a mile of Malolos without encountering enemy soldiers. He made his report to MacArthur, and a general advance was ordered. At 2 P.M., with the Nebraska and Pennsylvania regiments in the vanguard, we moved cautiously toward the city. About a half mile from Malolos we came upon two lines of abandoned trenches and halted there for the night. “At 8 A.M., the Utah and Sixth U.S. Artillery began bombarding the enemy breastworks. When cease fire was called, the First and Second Brigades moved forward. A few trembling civilians came out of hiding to meet our advancing line. They told us that most of the insurgents had left Malolos, but enough enemy soldiers remained to put up a spirited defense. “As we advanced into the city, puffs of smoke could be seen rising from all sections of the town, and Aguinaldo’s palace was burning. Moving down the main street, the men of the Twentieth Kansas found their way blocked by a large stone barricade. Behind the stone works, a brave band of Filipinos scattered the Kansans with a barrage of Mauser bullets. General Funston quickly rallied his troops and, waving his hat in the direction of the enemy and shouting encouragement, he led his men over the barricade, capturing the last pocket of Filipino resistance. “Malolos was a disappointment to me. I had imagined that Aguinaldo’s capital would be worth seeing—it was not. The city’s streets run to suit themselves, winding in and out, and intersecting each other in a strange, confusing manner. Almost all native dwellings are huts made of nipa palm leaves and bamboo. Although a couple of city blocks reminded me of Manila. The homes in this section of town are built of wood and have stone foundations. Aguinaldo’s residence had been burned to the ground, so I have no idea what it looked like. The road to victory has been difficult, but we are gradually conquering Luzon.” After interrupting his studies at Princeton University in 1898 to enlist in the U.S. Army, John R. Brewer began a thirty-seven-year army career. He was commissioned a second lieutenant in 1901 and during World War I served with the Eighteenth Infantry Regiment in France from June 1917 to December 1919. Among the battles in which Brewer participated were Cantigny, the Champagne-Marne offensive, the Marne-Aisne offensive, the St. Mihiel offensive, and the Argonne-Meuse offensive. Subsequently, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and was assigned as a staff officer with the First Army Corps. He later served with the Second Army Corps as Chief of Operations and was promoted to the rank of colonel. At the close of the war Colonel Brewer directed the return of two million soldiers back to the United States. In addition to the many decorations bestowed upon him by the United States,

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John Brewer was also made an officer of the Legion of Honor by the French government. Colonel Brewer retired from the army in March 1936 and died on May 2, 1951.

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The U.S. Army’s Gunboat Navy General Elwell Otis had only been in command of U.S. Army forces in the Philippines for a short time when he conceived the idea of employing gunboats on the rivers and lakes to keep the line of communication open between regiments. At first the fact that the rivers were shallow was a serious objection to the project, but Otis solved the problem by using light draft vessels. Because of the nature of the terrain north and east of Manila, Otis believed that water craft of this kind could protect the advance of infantry and also render artillery support when needed. Six captured vessels were purchased from Spain and converted into river gunboats—the Laguna de Bay, Napindan, Oeste, Oceania, Covadonga, and Florida. The Laguna de Bay was the first of these ships placed in commission for this kind of work. She was 140 feet in length with a 40 foot beam and a draft of only 4 feet. While being fitted out, it was decided to give the Laguna de Bay armored protection. Therefore, her main deck, upper deck, and pilot house were shielded by a double sheeting of steel. The gunboat’s armament consisted of four Gatling guns on the upper deck; two, three-inch navy guns forward; and two Hotchkiss guns aft. A crew of two officers and sixty-five enlisted men was assigned to the vessel. The ship’s company was comprised of members of the Utah Artillery, Third U.S. Artillery, Twenty-third U.S. Infantry, and First South Dakota Volunteer Regiment. Captain Benjamin Randolph of the Third Artillery was put in command of the gunboat. On the morning of February 5 General Thomas Anderson sent the Laguna de Bay up the Pasig River to bombard Santa Ana, while the Nebraska, Califor-

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nia, and Washington volunteer regiments attacked the town from the land side. Within twenty minutes after Captain Randolph turned his guns on the city, most of the buildings were in flames, and the defending garrison could be seen fleeing toward San Pedro Macati. While the Laguna de Bay was busy pounding Santa Ana, Filipino sharpshooters entrenched on the north bank of the river made a nuisance of themselves peppering the ship with rifle fire. Moments after the Americans stormed the town, Randolph concentrated his artillery fire on the opposite bank. The navy and Hotchkiss guns quickly tore large holes in the enemy earthworks, and the Gatlings raked the trenches with devastating effect. When all resistance had ceased, the gunboat steamed back to Manila to recoal and load ammunition. On February 16, Captain Frank Grant, Utah Artillery, replaced Benjamin Randolph as commanding officer of the Laguna de Bay. Grant was an experienced sailor, having formerly captained passenger ships on the Great Lakes. The following morning the Laguna de Bay carried out a heavy bombardment against a strong Filipino force at San Pedro Macati. After successfully completing the assignment Grant was ordered to destroy enemy positions near Guadalupe. As the gunboat headed upriver, however, she met with determined resistance. Captain Grant described the action in his report: “As we neared the town, our ship came under heavy attack. We vigorously returned the fire and engaged insurgent forces shooting at us from both banks of the river. Every gun played on the enemy lines. In less than a half-hour, we expended 25 3-inch projectiles, 4,200 Gatling shells, and 2,300 rounds of rifle ammunition. The Filipinos quickly withdrew inland, and we dropped back downstream. “Later in the day, Admiral Dewey came aboard for a consultation. While we were conversing, an enemy sharpshooter began taking pot-shots at the admiral, who was standing on an unprotected part of the deck. After a few near misses, Dewey decided that he had ventured far enough inside the insurgent lines, and we returned to Manila.” On February 20, Captain Grant sent a detachment of men ashore at San Felipe to cut down trees and brush in order to give his artillery spotters an unobstructed view of the terrain across the river from Santa Ana and San Pedro Macati. During the next several days the Laguna de Bay patrolled the river near Guadalupe, with only occasional sniper fire to keep her crew and gunners on the alert. On the morning of March 4, Grant’s gunboat came under heavy rifle fire from a strong enemy force entrenched east of San Pedro Macati. The Utah Artillery immediately went into action, unleashing a rapid barrage of shells against the insurgent position. The Filipinos held their ground for a few hours but were finally forced to give way before the vicious onslaught from the Laguna de Bay. The gunboat followed the fleeing soldiers, and Captain Grant directed a deadly fire into the woods on both sides of the river. The Laguna de Bay was

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repeatedly hit by enemy bullets—one striking and killing Private John Toiza of the Third U.S. Artillery. Grant continued upriver to Guadalupe, where the First California Regiment was dug in outside the city. Generals Anderson and King came aboard the gunboat, and further operational plans were discussed. Captain Frank Grant narrated: “At noon on 8 March, Colonel James Smith of the First California joined us. We headed toward Pasig, where he was to receive the surrender of the city. But the current was faster than I had imagined. A sharp bend in the river was too difficult to navigate, and we suddenly ran aground. I threw the engines in reverse and carefully moved back into the flow of the river. A minute later, however, we struck a barge, breaking three buckets on our left wheel. “We laid up for repairs until the 10th, when I received orders from General Anderson to anchor below the Pasig landing. We remained at that spot throughout the night—fully aware that an enterprising enemy could easily set up a field piece on the riverbank and sink us. “In the morning, I learned that two California companies, under Major H. T. Sime, were in trouble near Pateros. The Laguna de Bay was ordered to head upriver at top speed and support Major Sime’s attack. After running aground again, with slight damage to our right wheel, I succeeded in anchoring at a good location near the enemy position. Insurgent rifle fire was brisk, but we silenced it in a matter of minutes. “Two guns of the Astor Battery had been directed to join us and set up a shore defense for the gunboat while we made repairs to the ship. The Astor boys, however, would not arrive for a few hours. Therefore, I told Lieutenant Edwin Harting, of the First South Dakota, to take four men and a Hotchkiss gun ashore. Harting was in charge of loading the lifeboat, but when he gave the order to shove off, the craft capsized and was swept under the ship. Three of the soldiers managed to grab on to the side of the gunboat and were hauled aboard. Harting and the fourth man were carried downstream by the swift current. “Although Harting was a good swimmer, he was loaded down with a heavy ammunition belt, and rapidly sank from sight. The other soldier was rescued by Private Leroy Bunker, who jumped into the river and helped the struggling man to reach shore. Rescue parties were hurriedly organized. Both sides of the river were searched for signs of Harting, but without success. It was not until two days later that his body washed up on the riverbank.” On the morning of March 13 General Loyd Wheaton began a major offensive along the Pasig River. The Laguna de Bay was in the vanguard, destroying enemy positions ahead of the advancing infantry. The Filipinos sunk barges loaded with rocks in an unsuccessful effort to impede the progress of the gunboat. As the Laguna de Bay neared the Mariquina River, she was ambushed by a large band of insurgents who were entrenched on both banks of the river. Al-

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though Captain Grant’s ship was pounded by Mauser bullets, the Utah Artillery inflicted heavy casualties on the Filipinos, forcing them to withdraw. After the gun battle an enemy casco was discovered that contained hurriedly discarded uniforms. The fleeing insurgents had changed from their military clothes to the native costume and now blended in with the local population. The frightening aspect of fighting a guerrilla war had suddenly become a reality. The following day the Laguna de Bay bombarded Pasig—clearing the town of Aguinaldo’s troops. The Pasig River was now open from Manila to the lake. Captain Grant captured a large number of launches and cascos, and American garrisons were established at Pasig, Pateros, and Taguig. On March 17 Captain Grant, with the Laguna de Bay, and the Covadonga commanded by Lieutenant William Webb, steamed into the enemy-controlled lake. The gunboats headed to Morong on a reconnaissance mission. Upon landing near town, Webb, with twenty-four men and a Gatling gun, went ashore to reconnoiter the area. As the Americans advanced cautiously across the fertile rice fields, they caught an occasional glimpse of a straw hat moving furtively through thick bamboo groves. During a search of the city, a thousand bushels of rice and three cascos were captured. Only a few elderly inhabitants remained in the town. Upon questioning, they revealed that the insurgents had sneaked across the bay to Santa Cruz. Meanwhile the Laguna de Bay and Napindan headed up the Pagsanjan River. They soon found their way blocked with submerged logs and rocks. Captain Grant stated: “More than a week was spent removing the obstructions and repairing damage to the gunboats. Finally on the 28th we continued our journey. After moving another mile and a half upstream, we had to stop and remove more barricades. The countryside surrounding this spot was covered with thick brush and small trees—very much like a bayou. “I had an uncomfortable feeling and thought to myself that this would be a perfect place for an ambush. A moment later, a flurry of Mauser bullets splattered against the sides of the ship and gun shields. Our Hotchkiss and Gatling guns immediately answered the attack, shredding the insurgent position. The Filipinos quickly dispersed and disappeared into the jungle.” As the Laguna de Bay and Napindan continued upstream, they were kept under constant enemy fire. Suddenly the Napindan’s pilot was shot. Control of the ship was lost, and she ran aground. The Laguna de Bay hurried to her assistance but struck a sandbar and was held fast. Both ships fought off sporadic Mauser attacks until the tide came in, and they were able to float free and move into midstream. For the past month Captain Frank Grant had been trying to interest General Henry Lawton in undertaking an expedition against Santa Cruz. The city was situated on the eastern shore of the lake and was one of main agricultural centers for the island of Luzon. Emilio Aguinaldo depended upon this rich farming area to feed his army. It also afforded his soldiers a base from which to make flank attacks on the Manila waterworks.

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Captain Grant realized that a major offensive would be required to capture Santa Cruz. He returned to division headquarters and presented his plan of action. General Lawton approved the mission, and a strategy was rapidly formulated to capture the city. An expeditionary force of fifteen hundred men was quickly put together. Major John Weisenburger of the First Washington Volunteers was placed in command. Among the troops assigned to this brigade were detachments from the Fourth U.S. Cavalry (dismounted); the Fourteenth U.S. Infantry; the First North Dakota, First Idaho, and First Washington Regiments; plus the Sixth U.S. Artillery and a signal corps unit. Each man carried 200 rounds of ammunition and rations for ten days. On April 8 the Laguna de Bay, Napindan, and Oeste steamed up the Pasig River with twenty cascos and seven launches in tow. However, because of the narrow, winding channel, many of the cascos ran aground. It was not until four o’clock the next morning that the flotilla reached Taguig. At daylight the boats started their trip across the lake. They reached Jalajala Point at noon, where a beachhead near Santa Cruz was mapped out. When the fleet had approached to within five miles of Santa Cruz, the Napindan made a high-speed run close inshore and bombarded insurgent positions near the proposed landing site. The enemy earthworks were soon silenced, and the troops were ordered to disembark. The soldiers encamped for the night west of the town, and the gunboats moved out into deeper water. It was not quite daylight when General Lawton came ashore. He walked along the front, speaking words of encouragement to the men about to go into battle. As soon as he was informed that all telegraph lines from Santa Cruz had been cut, Lawton issued his attack orders. Captain Grant described the action: “The general advance began at daybreak. The sound of gunfire was quickly heard. This was our signal for the gunboats to attack the enemy defenses. Lawton’s forces, south and west of Santa Cruz, drove the Filipinos north, where heavy shelling by the ships blocked their path. The only escape was east, across the open, marshy rice fields, where the Gatlings mowed them down in heaps. By evening, General Lawton had taken the city and established his headquarters in the local church.” An Associated Press correspondent traveling with the army described the attack in an article appearing in the Boston Globe: “Our troops chased the insurgents in the direction of Pagsanjan, a beautiful village nestled at the foot of the mountains on the north end of Laguna de Bay. At the edge of town, we marched down a broad avenue, paved with stone, and lined by coconut trees. We had only proceeded about a mile along this road, when the crack of Mausers was heard. The soldiers immediately deployed to the right and left. We continued our advance, but met with no further resistance. Pagsanjan was captured without firing a shot. “When our troops entered the village, they found it deserted—with the ex-

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ception of one old woman. However, there were many chickens and geese running about, and they made a tasty dinner for the hungry conquerors.” Meanwhile, the Laguna de Bay, Napindan, and Oeste steamed north along the lake shore and bombarded the village of Lumbang, preparatory to General Lawton’s advance on the town. As the Americans continued their march up the western shore of the lake, they suddenly came under heavy rifle and artillery fire. The Laguna de Bay responded to a call for help and bombarded enemy strongholds at Paete and Siniloan. The gunboats were then ordered back to Manila where another difficult assignment awaited them. General Elwell Otis was more than pleased with the successful efforts of his river fleet and decided to send the gunboats up the waters of the Rio Grande de Pampanga, which led into the heart of the enemy-controlled territory. On May 9, the Covadonga, with Lieutenant William Webb in command, was directed to reconnoiter the entrance to the river. She ran aground once but finally located the correct channel leading to the wide waters of the Rio Grande. The following morning the Covadonga was joined by the Laguna de Bay and Oceania—both gunboats towing cascos carrying supplies and infantry. Sergeant Charles Mabey was aboard the Covadonga, and described the journey: “For several miles upriver, this part of Luzon is the home of the Macabebe tribe. Large crowds of friendly natives gathered along the riverbank and filled the air with shouts of ‘Viva los Americanos!’—to which the soldiers replied in variegated and wonderfully woven Filipino phrases. We arrived at Calumpit in the early afternoon, and the Infantry disembarked. “The gunboats remained at Calumpit until the 14th, when the Covadonga was sent out on a scouting mission. Upon reaching the village of Apalit, we noticed that all the natives fled as soon as we approached. The terrain is heavily timbered on both sides of the river, but there were no signs of hostility until the Covadonga neared San Luis. “Lieutenant Webb was standing unprotected on the bow. Just as we rounded a bend in the river fronting the town, a long line of straw hats and the bores of fifty rifles came into view off our port quarter. Webb was busy scanning the opposite shore with his binoculars. He was unaware of the danger, but Sergeant Ford Fisher spotted the enemy. He shouted a warning and raced to push Webb behind a gun shield. Too late. A Mauser volley shattered the quiet air. Fisher’s body caught the bullets intended for Webb. Almost instantly the bow onepounder and port Gatling gun exacted their revenge. The onslaught was horrific as our guns ripped the enemy lines. The battle lasted about thirty minutes, often at a range of only twenty yards. The few Filipinos that survived our attack fled into the jungle. The Covadonga, carrying the lifeless body of Ford Fisher, turned around and returned to Calumpit.” That evening battalions of the Seventeenth and Ninth U.S. Infantry Regiments began their advance up the Rio Grande. They were accompanied by the Laguna

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de Bay and Covadonga. The gunboats kept the soldiers in sight and guns manned and ready to attack any points of enemy resistance. Charles Mabey narrated: “The next morning, upon nearing San Luis, white flags could be seen waving everywhere. We also passed many cascos carrying entire Filipino families heading downstream. About noon, we reached Candaba without a hostile shot being fired. It was here that Captain Grant was met by the town’s mayor who stated that he convinced the insurgents to leave the village. He did not want the town destroyed with a heavy loss of life among his people.” This sortie up the Rio Grande de Pampanga ended the fighting record of the U.S. Navy gunboats under army command. The vessels now took on a new role. They were utilized in carrying troops and supplies up the Rio Grande and bringing the wounded downstream to hospital facilities. The Utah Light Artillery returned to the United States on July 31, 1899, and was mustered out of the service at San Francisco on August 16. Upon his return to civilian life, E. A. Wedgewood resumed his career as a lawyer specializing in irrigation and mining law. In 1907 he was appointed adjutant general for the State of Utah and, although a Democrat, he served ten years under Republican governors. Wedgewood was also a member of the National Militia Board. When America entered World War I he was appointed a brigadier general in the U.S. Army—one of only two civilians to be granted that distinction. During the war Wedgewood commanded the Eighty-second Infantry Brigade of the Forty-first Division. He died in Salt Lake City on January 31, 1920. After his discharge from the Utah Artillery, Charles R. Mabey entered politics and served two terms in the Utah State Legislature. He was also a member of the Utah National Guard and, upon the outbreak of World War I, he was commissioned a captain and served as an artillery instructor at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. In 1920 Mabey once more tried the political arena and ran for the office of governor of Utah. He was elected by a landslide but, because of a recession, he was defeated in 1924. During his governorship Mabey was noted for the development of the state’s highway system and the construction of more than 500 miles of roads. He was also responsible for Utah entering into the Colorado River Compact—an agreement that would prove essential for the state’s further growth. Charles Mabey left office with many lasting achievements to his credit and is considered a pivotal figure in moving Utah into the modern era. He died on April 26, 1959, at the age of eighty-one.

Admiral George Dewey, U.S.N. Courtesy of U.S. Naval Historical Center.

USS Olympia. Courtesy of U.S. Navy.

Emilio Aguinaldo. Courtesy of National Archives.

Evaristo de Montalvo. Courtesy of Getrudis de Montalvo Willett.

Astor Battery in camp, June 1898. Captain Peyton C. March is on the far right, facing the camera. Courtesy of U.S. Army Military History Institute.

Soldiers of Company A, Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. Left to right: Edward L. Adams, Charles Campbell, John Boyd, William Ray, and John Warren. Photograph taken in California prior to leaving for the Philippines. Author’s collection.

Jacob F. Kreps. Courtesy of U.S. Army Military History Institute.

A soldier from Company E, Twenty-second Infantry Regiment. Author’s collection.

Lieutenant Colonel John R. Brewer, Chief of Staff, General Staff, Third Division. Photograph taken at Osches, Meuse, France. September 23, 1918. Courtesy of U.S. Army Military History Institute.

The gunboats Laguna de Bay, Covadonga, and Oceania arrive at Candaba, Luzon, with troops and supply barges. Mary 18, 1899. Courtesy of National Archives.

Company E, Fifty-first Iowa Volunteer Infantry. Corporal John Monzingo is on the far left, second row from bottom. Author’s collection.

Lyman P. Edwards. Courtesy of Joe Edwards.

USS Yorktown photographed soon after 1901, with two masts and without shields to main battery guns. Courtesy of U.S. Naval Historical Center.

Littleton Waller Tazewell Waller, U.S. Marine Corps. Courtesy of U.S. Naval Historical Center.

A Moro warrior sitting in front of his cotta on Lake Lanao. Author’s collection.

A Moro datu of Mindanao. The umbrella he carries is a symbol of his authority. Author’s collection.

Moro vinta, or longboat, manned by American soldiers. Author’s collection.

The Spanish gunboat Lanao after being raised from the bottom of Lake Lanao. Author’s collection.

The American gunboat Flake after being erected on Lake Lanao by the Americans. Author’s collection.

American troops viewing the bodies of Moros killed during the Battle of Bud Dajo. March 5, 1906. Author’s collection.

20

Malolos to Calumpit: The Bloodiest Campaign Although the army gunboats had accomplished their purpose on the waters of the Rio Grande de Pampanga, enemy activity east of the river was becoming more active. The Filipinos had been busily at work on their defenses and constructing a series of new trenches within two miles of the Manila-Dagupan Railroad. On April 15, General Elwell Otis sent word to General Henry Lawton to cancel the Laguna de Bay expedition and prepare to take part in a campaign to drive the insurgents from the territory between the Rio de Pampanga and the Bulacan Mountains. Lawton’s orders were to proceed to Novaliches and then across the swamps and rice fields to San Jose. From there he would head to Norzagaray, where a large enemy force was reported to be entrenched near the town. At the same time a Second Division brigade—under Colonel Owen Summers—would march from Bocaue to Norzagaray and support Lawton. The other Second Division brigades would head northeast from Malolos and attack the insurgent stronghold at Calumpit. At 5 A.M. on April 22, Lawton took the field with a column of troops consisting of the First North Dakota Volunteer Infantry, two battalions of the Third U.S. Infantry, the Twenty-second U.S. Infantry, two guns of Captain E. D. Scott’s Sixth U.S. Artillery, and three troops of the Fourth U.S. Cavalry acting as infantry. Each soldier was issued a hundred rounds of ammunition and rations for ten days. The North Dakota regiment led the advance, and the Fourth Cavalry brought up the rear. About 8:30 A.M. several miles south of Novaliches, Lawton’s brigade encountered a strong enemy force that occupied both sides of the road leading into the town. After a fierce fifteen minute fire fight, most of the insurgents fled into

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the surrounding jungle. A detachment of sharpshooters hid in the trees to harass the Americans. Upon entering Novaliches, Lawton found the town deserted. The Filipinos had taken everything of value with them, including rice. By 1 P.M. the heat was so overpowering that the Americans were compelled to take a short rest in the shade before continuing their march. During the

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afternoon and throughout the night, enemy snipers kept up an irritating and desultory fire. Captain Jacob Kreps narrated: “At daybreak, our column advanced toward San Jose. The so-called road quickly became a footpath, winding its way across the rice fields, through the valleys, and over the hills. All the while, the men were exposed to the sweltering rays of the tropical sun.” About 3 P.M. General Lawton bivouacked his brigade about two miles from San Jose. Kreps continued: “A violent rainstorm raged from nine o’clock until midnight, adding to the discomfort of the exhausted command. It was a fitful sleep, lying in pools of water and mud.” At daylight Lawton’s brigade moved into San Jose without opposition. The supply wagons, however, were still many miles behind. Many of the water buffalo hauling the carts died from the difficult journey, and the wagons had to be pulled by soldiers. It was dark before they caught up with the brigade. Jacob Kreps recalled: “On 25 April, we continued our march. The supply situation worsened by the hour. Buffalo kept dying, and the men, burdened down with rifle, gunbelt and blanket roll, yoked themselves to the wagons and pulled cart after cart up the steep slopes.” As General Lawton’s troops were trudging across hills and through swamps, Owen Summer’s brigade captured Norzagaray. Lawton arrived a few hours later. The following day, drenched by pouring rain, the combined brigades marched to Angat, where they bivouacked in flooded rice fields. Meanwhile, Emilio Aguinaldo sent a peace commission, led by Pedro Paterno, to meet with General Elwell Otis. Paterno’s proposal asked several concessions from the United States, including an agreement that the Filipino army would not be forced to disband but would be incorporated into the U.S. Army. Otis could not guarantee the requests. Negotiations were broken off, and Paterno angrily issued a statement blaming the United States for refusing a truce offer and prolonging the war. On the early morning of April 29, Lawton’s troops proceeded up the west bank of the Bagbag River toward San Rafael, while Summer’s brigade followed up the east bank. General Lawton’s detachment of scouts, led by William Young, checked the jungle ahead. About two miles from the town the scouts dispersed as skirmishers. Taking advantage of the underbrush, Young and his men quietly approached their objective. Upon reaching a clearing in front of a number of native huts, the scouts, firing their weapons and shouting at the top of their lungs, rushed the town. The enemy soldiers were terrified by the noise. They dropped their rifles and fled in confusion—the scouts in hot pursuit. Bill Young broke into the local church. He dashed up to the belfry and rang the bell as a signal to General Lawton that San Rafael was now clear of insurgents. At daybreak the next day both brigades continued their advance along the shores of the Bagbag River. As Bill Young and his scouts neared the town of Bustos, they ran into an enemy ambush. The sound of heavy gunfire brought the Twenty-second Infantry to the rescue. The soldiers deployed as they rushed

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through the woods. Yelling Indian war-whoops, the Americans chased the Filipinos behind formidable stone barricades that encircled the city. Lawton’s other battalions were ordered to the right flank of the enemy defenses, and upon signal a frontal and flank assault was made on the city. It was a picture-perfect attack as the Americans charged the masonry breastworks. The enemy fled in confusion. Within an hour Bustos was captured, and a large number of Aguinaldo’s soldiers were taken prisoner. Across the river Summer’s brigade had run up against a strong enemy force at Baliuag. Lawton directed his scout detachment to sneak across the Bagbag and rush the town from the rear. Bill Young and his men crossed the river several hundred yards upstream and attacked the city from behind. The enemy’s defense quickly crumbled as the American troops burst into the city. The scout’s broke down the door of the town’s church. Young climbed to the steeple and again rang the bell to signal the victory. Meanwhile, in order to determine the enemy strength east of Malolos, General MacArthur directed Major J. Franklin Bell to form an organization of scouts to reconnoiter the area between Bocaue and Calumpit. On April 14, Bell selected three men each from the First Nebraska, First South Dakota, First Montana, Twentieth Kansas, and Fifty-first Iowa volunteer regiments and two men each from Troops I, K, and E, Fourth U.S. Cavalry. Lieutenants John Mead of the First Montana and Edward J. Hardy of the Twentieth Kansas commanded the detachment. A few days later Bell received orders to check on a reported enemy build up south of Malolos. At 3 A.M. on April 23 the scouts left camp on their reconnaissance mission. They advanced without incident until coming under fire near Quingua. The insurgents had constructed a long, horseshoe-shaped trench that curved around a rice field on the edge of a heavily wooded area. Major Bell checked the enemy position through his binoculars. The earthworks were about 800 yards to the front and looked to be lightly defended. In his report to General MacArthur Lieutenant Hardy stated: “We advanced a few hundred yards without incident, but then came under a withering fire from the trenches and were forced to take refuge in a nearby ravine. Five of our men had been wounded. We helped them to safety but had to leave a dead cavalryman on the field. The Filipinos found his body and robbed it of a revolver and belt—and five hundred dollars of the troop’s library fund. “Moments later, a large enemy force hiding in the woods charged the ravine. We fought them off. But, where five minutes before there had been only a few dozen insurgents in the trenches, now there were hundreds. Major Bell immediately sent a messenger for reinforcements.” Meanwhile back at Malolos Major Henry Mulford was temporarily in command of the First Nebraska until Colonel John Stotsenburg returned from a short trip to Manila. As soon as the exhausted, out-of-breath courier dashed into headquarters and reported the situation at Quingua, Mulford immediately ordered out a relief force that included troops from companies A, D, F, and H of the First

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Nebraska Regiment under Major Frank Eager and companies B, E, G, H, I, K, L, and M of the Fifty-first Iowa Regiment commanded by Majors John T. Hume and Sterling Moore. Major Eager stated: “The Nebraskans were the first troops to reach the area. As we neared the woods, Companies D and H formed a skirmish line to the right, and A and F to the left. Our right flank companies exited the woods first. They had moved forward across the rice field for about 200 yards, when a flury of Mauser bullets sent every man face down in the mud. I have never seen such marksmanship. “Lying in cramped positions, we returned fire, but it only seemed to draw more volleys from the enemy. The troops were forced to keep low and swelter in the hot sun. One man died from heatstroke. Several soldiers were shot while attempting to carry their unconscious or wounded comrades to safety. There was not a sign of artillery to rescue us.” Meanwhile the Fifty-first Iowa companies hurried to the scene of action. In his memoirs Corporal John Monzingo of Company E wrote: “We left camp at 10 A.M., all of us thinking that we would be back in time for dinner—consequently, the men carried nothing in the way of food or extra water, only rifles and ammunition. “We headed in the direction of shouting voices and the sound of gunfire. A scouting party consisting of Charles Binns, Adrian Hockett, Bert Thomas, Harry Smith, and Evan Evans was sent forward. A few minutes later, ‘Stub’ Evans came running through the woods and told our captain, Albert Krause, that Hockett and Thomas were lying wounded a short distance ahead. “Evans said that our scouts had joined up with Company L and in a few moments were in the thick of the fight. Enemy sharpshooters were everywhere. Adrian was hit in the thigh. Litter bearers quickly arrived and started carrying Adrian to the rear. Bert Thomas went along as guard. Filipino snipers began firing at the litter bearers. One of the Mauser bullets struck Thomas above the knee cap. “While listening to Evans describe the wounding of two members of the regiment, I watched with fear at the furious battle taking place on the left. Suddenly the enemy noticed us, and a few bullets whizzed overhead. A moment later, a volley of deadly missiles slashed into our front. “We were quickly ordered out as skirmishers and moved forward to a nearby rice ridge. Mauser bullets were cutting the grass all around us. The Filipinos had our range. “The first time under enemy fire in a battle takes the nerve out of a soldier. Every man hugs the ground. The Mauser has a sharp ‘ping’ sound, while our Springfield’s are dull and flat. We had orders not to return fire. It soon became evident that the Iowans were being used to draw the enemy’s volleys so that the Nebraska boys could get in position. “By the time we had orders to advance, we were accustomed to the mournful

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sound of the Mauser, and jokes were passed down the line. Once up and going— even if towards a wall of bullets—a soldier feels less helpless. “Our officers rapidly won the confidence and admiration of every man, as they rode back and forth along the front and joked how the Mauser bullets were tearing up the sod. With heroics like this, soldiers will follow such leaders anywhere. By this time, our expections of a small skirmish had turned into a major battle, with hundreds of Filipinos fighting to protect the town of Quingua. “Our front line continued to advance, while our right attempted a flanking movement on a large group of insurgents that had us within range of their Mausers, but the distance was too great for our antiquated Springfields. They kept retreating as we advanced and stayed just out of range.” As the battle intensified Major Eager chronicled the heavy price paid by the First Nebraska Regiment: “Companies A, D, F, and H were pinned down by accurate enemy fire. Suddenly the sound of cheering could be heard down the line. General Hale had arrived with a battery of Utah Artillery. Within a few minutes, the guns were pounding the Filipino positions. But every passing moment our men, trapped in the rice field, were succumbing to the scorching heat and Mauser bullets. “Lieutenant Christian Hansen, commanding Company D, and a few other men attempted to crawl back to the ravine, but Hansen quickly became too exhausted to move. Charles Schwartz was shot in the back as he tried to help the lieutenant. Richard James and Edwin Peterson were also wounded striving to reach the ravine. As the minutes wore on, many of the soldiers felt death preferable to suffering the throat-parching, debilitating heat.” Colonel Stotsenburg arrived back at Malolos about noon. Upon learning that his regiment was fighting for its life, the colonel mounted his horse and raced to the scene of action. Stotsenburg arrived in time to see General Hale directing the Utah battery. A reporter for the Manila Freedom described the final assault by the Nebraskans on the enemy earthworks. “It is said that General Hale ordered Colonel Stotsenburg to recall his men from the rice field. Stotsenburg refused and, as he urged his horse across the clearing toward the ravine, he shouted to the general, ‘My place is with my men!’ “The Nebraska troops—upon seeing their colonel dashing across the clearing, his familiar brown coat streaming behind him—filled the air with cheers and shouts. But the insurgents also noticed the reckless figure—racing like a whirlwind—through the deadly no-man’s-land. “The Nebraskans were astonished. They could not believe their eyes, as bullets zipping on all sides of Colonel Stotsenburg, did not touch even a hair on his head. Stotsenburg safely reached the ravine—out of breath but exuberant. Rallying his reserve companies, the colonel reared up on his horse, pointed toward the enemy trenches, and shouted only one word, ‘Forward!’ “As if in a determined trance, the Nebraska troops followed their colonel into

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a field of death. Advancing slowly, the American front was half the length of the enemy’s line of trenches. “Mauser fire was ten times hotter than before. Each soldier was sure that the next moment would be his last. Mauser bullets played a sad song as they methodically cut chunks out of the Nebraska line. Stotsenburg continually warned his men to keep low. He had no thought of danger for himself. His soldiers came first. “The distance to the enemy trenches was narrowing, but so was the American battle line. Several times, the Nebraskans halted their advance to fire volleys at the earthworks. “Sergeant Lee Stoner was shot in the face. As he fell backwards, Stoner tossed his rifle to the colonel. Stotsenburg grabbed it in midair and pointing the rifle in the direction of the enemy, urged his men on. Suddenly a Mauser bullet struck the Colonel’s chest, throwing him to the ground. Stotsenburg struggled to his knees, shouted, ‘Go on boys!’ then collapsed and died within a hundred yards of the entrenchments. “Witnesses stated that the sight of their leader falling in battle drove the Nebraskans nearly insane. Screaming maniacal shrieks, they dashed like crazed animals the remaining distance to the breastworks. The insurgents dropped their weapons and fled—the Nebraska boys in hot pursuit. “The rice field looked like a slaughter pen. One hundred brave American soldiers—dead and wounded—dotted the landscape. Among the casualties, Lieutenant L. E. Sissons was killed, and Lieutenants Andrew Wadsworth and William Moore were wounded. Although enemy losses were heavy, they did not pay for Colonel Stotsenburg’s life—or all the other brave men who fell this day.” About 4 P.M. the American troops cautiously approached Quingua. John Monzingo narrated: “Like they always do, the insurgents set fire to the town before retreating. The Iowans led the advance. Just as we reached the Quingua Road, an enemy sharpshooter’s bullet kicked up the dirt in front of me. Without orders we opened fire on the Filipino as he ran into the woods. He was dropped with two slugs in his leg. “Flanking parties were immediately sent to hunt for more snipers. We halted for the night at a creek about a mile outside Quingua. There was no supper. The supply wagons had not caught up with us, but the boys took the hunger without much complaining. “The night was not a feather-bed of rest by any means. The Utah battery was busy shelling the adjacent woods. The salvos sounded like teams of runaway horses cracking and knocking down brush and trees. “We were awakened at 3 A.M.—hungry but ready to go. Less than an hour later, the food detail arrived. Each man received one hardtack, and every eight men shared a can of Civil War beef that our government has been trying to get rid of ever since this war began. “At daybreak, we were again on our way. We marched about three miles,

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halted for a short time, then proceeded in single file along a narrow bluff path. Upon reaching the bottom of the cliff, our eyes were treated to an inspiring view. A broad, clear stream flowed in graceful curves until vanishing from sight in the distance. The river’s banks were fringed with a border of bamboo and foliage that gave the appearance of green lace. Royal palms lined the edge of a yellow sandy beach, and camped along the shore were the Nebraska and South Dakota regiments—the latter with its guidon and national colors floating in the breeze. “A short distance upstream, four guns of the Utah Battery, drawn by mules, were crossing a shallow ford in the river. To their left, an ambulance wagon, with shouting angry drivers, was still in midstream. The horses seemed reluctant to leave the cool water. “In their retreat, the insurgents had built a flimsy bamboo bridge, and the Nebraskans were carefully crossing the rickety span. Some of the soldiers, while waiting for orders to go across, were enjoying a bath. “Our regiment spent an hour moving over the bridge, during which time the Nebraska and Dakota troops deployed in a skirmish line through the woods on the opposite bank. Once across the stream, we formed on the right of the South Dakota. Our brigade had only advanced about a mile, when heavy firing was heard down the line. We hurried double-time in columns of four up a narrow, heavily wooded path. Instinctively, I sensed danger. My fears were quickly justified as a sniper bullet zipped overhead. We were ordered into single file and kept moving at a faster pace. “At a turn in the road, litter bearers passed us carrying five burdens. Two of the soldiers were dead—their faces covered. One of the three wounded was in terrible agony. I heard that he had been shot through both lungs. “About ten minutes later, we came upon a gruesome sight—the bodies of at least two dozen Filipinos, sprawled grotesquely in a trench facing the road. We soon reached a large open field and were about to deploy as skirmishers, when our regiment came under heavy fire. The Iowa boys practically flew into a skirmish line. From this distance, however, it was impossible to answer the hail of Mauser bullets. Shouting at the top of our lungs, we dashed to within range of our Springfields, dropped to a prone position, and began rapid-fire volleys at the enemy positions. “Suddenly, from the woods on our right, the Filipinos opened a raking cross fire on our lines. One Iowa battalion swung toward the woods and soon silenced the insurgent attack. “The hot sun was unbearable, and soldiers kept collapsing from heat exhaustion. We continued our advance, but it was slow going. The ground was swampy and walking was difficult. At noon, the regiment halted by a river to refill canteens before resuming the march. After a few minor skirmishes, we ended the day by taking a line of enemy trenches. The battle lasted about a half hour. We spent the night in the trenches, too tired and exhausted from the heat and gnawing hunger in our bellies to care about anything.

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“There was no sign of the supply wagons, but our captain had a few cans of beef in his haversack. This, plus warm water, was made into a soup that temporarily satisfied our angry stomachs. “Lying on the ground around us were a number of dead and wounded Filipinos. One of the injured men begged for ‘chow-chow’ (food). We tried to explain to the fellow that we had none, but shared our soup with him and the other wounded. “The food and supply carts arrived at 5 A.M., and we broke our long fast. After a hurried breakfast of hardtack and coffee, our regiment moved out on another day’s strenuous march. Progress was slow. We trudged through swamps—thick with wild grass and stunted thorn bamboo. The fiery sun beat down on us unmercifully. The heat was oppressive, and the water in our canteens were full of salt and alkali.” The town of Calumpit is on the Manila-Dagupan Railroad, forty miles northwest of Manila. Three large rivers flow past the city and are connected by a series of streams, making Calumpit difficult to attack successfully. A steel railway bridge crossed the Bagbag River near the town. The Filipinos had cut the girders, intending for the structure to fall if a train tried to cross the span, but the bridge collapsed prematurely of its own weight. At 10 A.M. on April 24, General Hale’s brigade came within sight of Calumpit and was joined by Generals MacArthur and Wheaton with a supply train. The first railway car was armored and carried Gatling guns, Colt machine guns, and a six-pounder. About a mile from the Bagbag River the train’s artillery opened fire on the heavily entrenched enemy. John Monzingo described the action: “The insurgents were swarming along our front. Three guns of the Utah Artillery immediately went to work. Shells could be heard exploding down rows of bamboo huts. The armored train attacked the enemy flank. Hotchkiss guns also played on the Filipino defenses. “The Nebraska regiment, on the right of our line, poured a withering fire into the insurgent trenches. Every man kept a handful of shells on the ground in front of him, enabling him to load and fire his rifle rapidly. “The roar of the cannon and the rattle of small arms were deafening. Adding to this bedlam of noise, was the fire from the enemy earthworks. The Utah Artillery shells zoomed over our heads. One fell short, exploding in front of my company. A piece of hot shrapnel knicked Samuel Tilden in the side, and another cut Clarence Kneedy on the wrist.” The Filipinos could not be budged from their entrenchments. The trenches had been strengthened by bamboo supports and had portholes just large enough for the muzzle of a rifle to poke through. At 2 P.M. the Nebraska regiment moved—under heavy Mauser fire—up to the riverbank. Major Eager and four other men were wounded before reaching the river. Concealing themselves behind bamboo brush, the Nebraskans kept up a steady rifle barrage across the water into the enemy earthworks. After the gun battle had raged for about an hour, Major Mulford led two

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Nebraska companies across the junction of the Rio Grande de Pampanga and Bagbag River and attacked the insurgent left flank. The rest of the regiment quickly followed. By this time it was becoming dark, and the Nebraskans camped for the night. Meanwhile, Colonel Frederick Funston made plans for the Twentieth Kansas Infantry to cross the dismantled bridge. In a story appearing in the Topeka Capital, Lieutenant Colin H. Ball of Company K described the crossing of the Bagbag River. “The popular impression is that Colonel Funston called for volunteers, but such is not the case. The facts, as I recall them, are as follows: “The Twentieth Kansas Infantry was halted in the woods three-quarters of a mile from the Bagbag River to wait for the armored car artillery to drive the enemy from its fortified position at the far end of the bridge. “Shortly after the armored car opened the battle, Colonel Funston ordered me to take a scouting party to the riverbank and ascertain if there were any insurgent soldiers on this side of the Bagbag. I accordingly selected four men from my company on whose good judgment, coolness and intrepidity I could rely. The soldiers I chose were Arthur Ferguson, Norman Ramsey, Edward Cornett, and John Woodruff. “We carefully moved upstream until nearly opposite the bridge without encountering the enemy. I sent word back to Funston that the field was clear. A high bluff commanded the far bank of the river. At its crest were a series of portholed trenches—capped with rocks—and partially hidden by thick brush. About eighty yards of water flowed between us and the base of the cliff. “We had been at the river for twenty minutes, when Colonel Funston and Company K came up under shelter of a ditch. Funston ran up to me and asked excitedly, ‘How the devil can I get across?’ “I told him that from the looks of things he would have to swim. He then wanted to know if I could get some bamboo poles to place over the open span. I said that I would take some men and check out the bridge to see what would be the best way to get across. “I took my top squad from Company K, and we moved cautiously on to the unstable structure. The Filipinos had removed the ties. We made our way forward—single file along a girder—until reaching the end of the cut off beam. I took my rubber poncho, wrapped it around a bridge support, and slid down into the water. The squad followed me, and we swam to the riverbank. Colonel Funston was right behind us, but he had stopped at the end of the beam to take his boots off before dropping into the river.” Realizing that the bridge could not be used safely, Funston swam back across the Bagbag. He then had two volunteers swim the river carrying a rope that they tied to a tree. After the line was secured on both banks of the Bagbag, Colonel Funston with nine men boarded a raft—and hauling it hand over hand— reached the far side of the river. Additional rafts quickly followed. Upon signal the Kansas and Nebraska regiments attacked the enemy flanks, routing the Filipinos. The havoc created by the American artillery and infantry

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assault could be seen in the insurgent trenches, where bodies were piled three deep in places. The American troops moved into Calumpit and established a defense line about a thousand yards beyond the city. Corporal Monzingo recalled: “The Fifty-first Iowa and First South Dakota regiments waded across the river at low tide. We were told to strip naked and carry our clothes on our heads to keep them from getting wet. We established a campsite in the suburbs of Calumpit and were instructed to be ready to march at a moment’s notice.” After his discharge from the army, John Monzingo entered Stanford University. He played on early varsity football teams and graduated in 1905 as a civil engineer. During World War I Monzingo served as a captain in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. He later became an executive with Western Union and held several civic offices in Mill Valley, California. John Monzingo was also owner of the Muir Woods Gift Shop. He died in November 1961 at the age of eightytwo years.

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Letter from Calumpit In a letter to his parents in Bedford, Iowa, Private Walter R. Combs, Company I, Fifty-first Iowa Volunteer Infantry, described the Calumpit campaign. May 2, 1899 We are now camped outside Calumpit, but it has been a tough fight getting here. Most of the boys are suffering from diarrhea or other diseases. Clothing is rotting on our backs, and some men are without shoes. Those of us who have been in battle can say with certainity that “war is hell.” It’s no fun to wade through rivers and swamps with bullets playing music over your head—and then rest in the sun just long enough for the mud to dry on your body before orders come through to resume the attack. The new method of fighting this war is to fire a few rounds—then advance toward the enemy—firing as we go. Using this tactic, the Filipinos cannot shoot at us without exposing themselves—which they seldom do—and they soon leave in a hurry. This continuous firing also drowns out the sound of the Mausers and gives the boys who are uneasy a little more nerve. There are usually a few men who are always afraid, but most of the guys are cool-headed. American newspapers report that the war is about over. But if they could see the enemy entrenchments and the stubborn defense put up by the Filipinos, they would sure change their minds in a hurry. Everyone back in the States thinks that we are well fed, but in reality our eating is pretty slim—rotten canned beef, canned tomatoes, canned beans—and none of it very good. The government runs a commissary that sells all kinds of canned fruit, canned pork, jams and jellies, and other foods that I always took for granted. However, the only soldiers that can afford to shop in this store are the officers and high-rollers. Most of the men doing the fighting out here would rather have the United States establish some form of government for the Filipinos, and let them run it to suit themselves. But the natives are in a hurry and will not wait for Uncle Sam to make up his

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mind—which is the reason that so many of our boys have fallen victim to the deadly Mauser. The American public has a mistaken idea regarding these largely unexplored islands. But they are a “Garden of Eden” as far as climate and opportunity are concerned.

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The Road to San Fernando: Death in the Swamps A few days after the capture of Calumpit, two of Aguinaldo’s officers—Colonel Manuel Arguelles and Lieutenant Jose Bernal—entered the American lines under a flag of truce. They requested a cessation of hostilities in order to try again for a peaceful solution to the war. The Filipinos were escorted to the Manila headquarters of General Elwell Otis. During their stay in Manila, the envoys were treated with the utmost respect. Otis provided the men with quarters in a residential home and permitted them to visit friends and relatives. A meeting was hurriedly scheduled to discuss the terms of an armistice and was attended by Jacob G. Schurman of the United States Philippine Commission, General Otis, and Admiral George Dewey. The discussions were mainly between Elwell Otis and Manuel Arguelles. The two men were well acquainted with each other. Colonel Arguelles had served on Aguinaldo’s committee that met with American authorities after the surrender of Manila in an endeavor to smooth out the friction that was developing between the two sides. Arguelles stated that the Filipino leaders wanted a chance to give up gracefully instead of surrendering in shame. He requested a two-week cease-fire so that Aguinaldo’s congress could be summoned to approve any agreed upon peace treaty. Schurman, however, told Colonel Arguelles that the United States would never recognize Emilio Aguinaldo’s government and could only give a written guarantee of amnesty for Aguinaldo and his followers. Colonel Arguelles contended that Spain had given the Filipinos similar guarantees and broken them. This time he insisted that his people must be permitted to quit with honor. He also revived the question of Philippine Independence, but was told that the Filipinos would be given an increasing measure of selfgovernment as soon as they proved worthy of it. Schurman also warned Colonel

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Arguelles that the longer the war lasted—and the higher the casualties—the stronger would be the animosities hindering cooperation between the two peoples for the prosperity of the islands. The conference ended without positive results, and hostilities quickly resumed. During the short cease-fire the Filipinos took advantage of the respite to strengthen the defenses of Santo Toma´s and San Fernando. The distance from Calumpit to Santo Toma´s was fifteen miles, but the only passable road ran through a large swamp. Aguinaldo’s followers had rendered the railway useless by destroying the bridges and had clogged the road through the marshland with logs and large stones. The remaining route crossed the swamps, which the Filipinos believed to be impassable. Private Edwin A. Merritt, Company M, Fifty-first Iowa Volunteer Regiment narrated: “While waiting at Calumpit for marching orders, rumors were flying that we would be joining General Lawton’s brigade—that was thought to be advancing to a position behind the enemy forces. But his movements were a mystery—and the main topic of conversation among the troops was, ‘Where is Lawton?’ ” On the morning of May 2, the Fifty-first Iowa and First South Dakota Regiments—plus a battery of Utah Artillery and one troop of Fourth U.S. Cavalry left Calumpit. Edwin Merritt stated: “We presumed that our objective was to join the left flank of Lawton’s line. The cavalry acted as the advance guard, with the Iowans next in columns of fours. After marching about nine miles, shooting was heard to our front. We deployed as skirmishers and advanced toward a small village. We were instructed to halt here and wait for orders. But, when none had arrived by late afternoon, we camped for the night. “Just before dark, a violent thunderstorm raged through the islands. I tried to make my cheap government poncho keep out the rain—but as usual, it didn’t. “We were roused before daybreak—no breakfast—and marched at nearly double time back to Calumpit—then another few miles to Apalit. Bad tempered and tired men cursed the army management that ran a man uphill, then down again, without giving him a reason or accomplishing anything by the maneuver. “At Apalit, Company M spent the night in a villa that had been the home of a Filipino patriot. Many rich sugar planters live here, consequently there are many fine homes.” Before daybreak on May 4 the brigades of Generals Wheaton and Hale went on the offensive. Wheaton’s troops followed the railroad tracks, while Hale’s regiments attempted to use the blocked roadway. Company M was Hale’s advance guard—300 yards to the front. Edwin Merritt continued his story: “We marched for six miles without sighting the enemy. But, just as we reached the swamp country, our scouts reported armed natives ahead. Company M was ordered to advance as skirmishers on the left side of the road. We were not to fire unless fired upon. A few minutes after deploying—and while moving cautiously through a wet cane field—we noticed

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a large number of enemy soldiers working on the road. They were within 400 yards of us and perfect targets. It was difficult, but we managed to obey orders and refrained from firing. General Hale was notified of the sighting and issued instructions to deploy the Iowa battalions. The Utah battery was also brought forward and advanced with our line. “We had only proceeded a couple of hundred yards, when the Utah battery halted. One of the mules—hauling the guns—refused to move. Upon checking the roadbed, we discovered that it had been ‘mined’ for quite some distance ahead. The Filipinos had dug many deep holes, and sharp, pointed stakes protruded from the bottom of each. The holes had been covered with palm matting, then a layer of dirt and grass. For safety, General Hale directed our brigade to cross the swamp. “Walking through a marshland is repulsive to even think of. With every step, we sank deeper and deeper into the quagmire. This swamp is a muck of foul mud mixed with decayed vegetation. Its rotten soil and tangled grasses tugged at one’s legs until it seemed to be impossible to take another step. Added to this misery was the terrible sun overhead. We literally broiled. Scattered water holes were the only things that saved us from utter exhaustion. “We hadn’t moved very far, when enemy troops opened fire on us. But we could not answer the attack. Bullets from our ‘flintlocks’ would not reach their position. The Filipinos knew this and stayed just out of range. Their skirmish line—boldly standing up—defiantly pecked away at us like ducks in a shooting gallery. We were fighting a foe that had few resources but were armed with a modern long-range rifle. While the soldiers of our great nation, with unlimited resources, were forced to advance through a deadly shower of bullets in order to get a good shot at the enemy. Rather a sad commentary on the United States War Department. “The Utah artillery could not traverse the booby-trapped road or swamp, but their gunners still managed to give the Filipinos plenty of grief. From the edge of the swamp, three Hotchkiss field pieces and a rapid-fire weapon pounded the enemy—giving us an opportunity to move within range.” For nearly three hot, sweltering hours, the Iowans fought one of the toughest battles of the campaign. Merritt recalled: “When our canteens were empty, we quenched our thirst with muddy swamp water. We almost ran out of ammunition a couple of times, but an additional supply was quickly brought up from the pack train. Then, just when I thought we were done for, loud cheers and shouts were heard—Wheaton’s brigade had arrived. The Kansans engaged the enemy’s right flank, and the Nebraskans sneaked around the edge of the swamp and came up on their left. Suffering heavy casualties, the Filipinos abandoned their position and fled in the direction of San Fernando.” Wheaton’s brigade advanced rapidly until they reached the river across from Santo Toma´s. The town had been put to the torch by the insurgents as they retreated. Major Bell’s scouts reconnoitered the riverbank. They had no sooner located a wrecked railroad bridge, than the scouts were fired upon by a large

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group of Filipinos strongly entrenched several hundred yards back from the river. Bell sent a message to Colonel Funston that the bridge over the water had been destroyed, and the enemy was in force near Santo Toma´s. Upon hearing the news General Wheaton had his engineers construct a bamboo and rope bridge about a mile below the city. The Kansas and Montana

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regiments quickly crossed the river and engaged the enemy. The Nebraska and South Dakota troops followed. Hale’s brigade formed up and arrived at the river just as the last few South Dakota companies were about to cross the bamboo span. Edwin Merritt narrated: “While waiting for orders to march on to the rickety, swaying bridge, I had time to reflect on our battle in the swamp. I vividly remember the Chinese litter bearers carrying, not only our wounded, but injured Filipinos as well, to medical aid stations in the rear. Other Chinamen were busy collecting the dead for burial. “One thing that has never ceased to amaze me is the courage of the enemy. It doesn’t matter how seriously wounded he is, the Filipino soldier never groans or shows the least sign of pain. His fortitude is remarkable. Many of the natives rip off their bandages—evidently believing that the gauze is poisoned. “There are some sights on the battlefield that make a man sick to look upon. In the heat of combat, a soldier views the action with a kind of exultation. But in the evening, after the excitement of the day has past, one wonders if there can be such a thing as righteousness in the carnage of war. “After crossing the river and chasing the enemy from Santo Toma´s, our regiment was quartered in several deserted houses on the outskirts of town. We had not eaten since three o’clock in the morning but were too exhausted and tired to care. We spent the evening scraping the swamp mud from our tattered clothes. “Meanwhile, a few Iowa officers managed to scrounge up some canned beef and hardtack from the other regiments. We finally had supper about ten-thirty. “The next morning, we were up at 5 A.M.—no breakfast. I learned to my dismay that the wagon train with food and ammunition could not reach us until the wrecked bridge was repaired. Both brigades were low on ammunition, so it was assumed that we would not be going anywhere. But—surprise of surprises—at eight o’clock our battalion was ordered to ‘fall in.’ We immediately moved out—accompanied by a Hotchkiss gun battery. We headed toward San Fernando—then made a wide detour around the city. Creeping quietly through a cane field, the battalion sneaked up behind the town’s defending breastworks. We painted our faces Indian style and on command raced like hundreds of screaming warriors into the enemy entrenchments. The swift attack reminded me of an old-fashioned Iowa rabbit hunt. Some of the Filipinos threw away their rifles and surrendered. Others pulled off their white shirts and waved them as flags of truce. Within a half hour, the city was ours. “San Fernando is a rich and beautiful town located on a plateau, with excellent climate, plenty of fresh water, and surrounded by some of the best sugar country in the islands. We had dinner in the courtyard of a splendid residence, then bivouacked in the suburbs.” Meanwhile, on May 8 General Lawton’s First Division headed toward San Miguel. Bill Young and his detachment scouted ahead. Upon reaching San Ildefonso, the scouts were attacked by a large enemy force. The Second Oregon

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Regiment, hearing the shooting, quickly arrived on the scene and chased the insurgents from the town. Later that day a delegation from Aguinaldo’s headquarters, waving white flags, approached the American lines. They requested permission to meet with General Otis and try once again for a negotiated settlement to the war. Otis, however, believed that Emilio Aguinaldo was just buying time until the islands were deep into the rainy season. The brigades of Generals Lawton and Summers continued their march on San Miguel. But Bill Young and his scouts were gradually increasing the distance between themselves and Lawton’s advance guard. Young’s detachment had no sooner reached the outskirts of San Miguel, than it was suddenly surrounded on three sides. The scouts were greatly outnumbered. Young realized that by staying in one spot or trying to retreat his men would be easily picked off. The scouts quickly decided that if they were going to die, they might as well do it in style. Firing their rifles and shouting at the top of their lungs, Young and his men charged the enemy front. The Filipino soldiers, thinking that Lawton’s brigade had arrived, deserted their trenches and fled. The scouts chased after them, but Bill Young’s luck finally ran out. He was mortally wounded urging his men onward. A minute later the American troops rushed into San Miguel and drove the enemy into the jungle. General Otis had originally intended for the brigades of MacArthur and Lawton to meet at San Miguel, but this was changed. The brigades were directed to join up at Arayat. Jacob Kreps narrated: “On 19 May, Captain Ballance and his battalion of Twenty-second U.S. Infantry led the assault on Arayat. The scouts deployed ahead—expecting at any moment to be fired upon. However, there was not one crack from a Mauser, whiz of a bullet, or a single enemy soldier in sight. They had already escaped into the hill country. General MacArthur arrived about noon, and the combined brigades bivouacked for the night.”

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The Siege of Baler and the Adventures of Lyman P. Edwards Baler Bay is a small cove located in a remote corner on the east coast of Luzon. A town by the same name, occupied by about a dozen Spanish troops, stood on a point of land jutting out from the south shore of the bay. A Spanish soldier described the region: “This is a desolate and lonely bay enclosed by stern mountain walls on the land side and the vast Pacific Ocean on the other. The oldest and most substantial dwelling in the town is the local church—a crude stone edifice—gaunt, bare and neglected. A priest’s residence, barracks for troops, and a small justice hall completed the Spanish influence in the city. “Although Manila is only about 120 miles from Baler, communications between the two towns was always difficult due to the mountains. Yet, although cut off as it was from the outside world, Baler was the most important outpost in the region and under Spanish rule was the capital of the District of El Principe.” In August 1897 rumors reached Spanish headquarters at Manila that arms and ammunition destined for Filipino insurgents were being smuggled into Luzon along the unguarded coast of Baler Bay. A Spanish army detachment of fifty men, under Lieutenant Don Jose´ Mota, was sent to Baler to stop the arms traffic. The garrisoning of Baler was a disaster waiting to happen. The Spanish soldier continued his account: “Lieutenant Mota’s detachment was not strong enough to be feared, but was worth getting rid of. On the early morning of October 5, a large Filipino force, stealing in through the forest trails as silent as the mists and shadows of dawn, pounced upon the sleeping garrison, killed or wounded twenty soldiers, and captured fifteen others plus the parish priest. They also carried away a large quantity of munitions. “Two days later, the transport Manila anchored at Baler Bay. The ship’s

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captain went ashore intending to exchange news with the garrison. He was shockingly confronted with the sight of a number of dead soldiers lying unburied in the plaza. The survivors of the massacre had fortified themselves in the church. The Manila’s captain assigned several sailors and a doctor to the garrison, then steamed away at top speed to report news of the tragedy to Spanish Headquarters.” A relief force of one hundred men was quickly dispatched to Baler aboard the gunboat Cebu. The troops were under the command of Captain Don Jesu´s Roldan. Upon reaching the bay the Spaniards discovered the Filipinos strongly entrenched along the shore. The Cebu’s guns soon drove the insurgents into the jungle, and Captain Roldan succeeded in landing his detachment. The newly arrived Spaniards quartered themselves in the church—while the men they relieved hurried aboard the Cebu and returned to Manila. The gunboat had no sooner sailed from Baler Bay, than the Filipinos laid siege to the church and the Spanish garrison. The siege lasted three months before the Cebu returned with fifty additional troops under Captain Martı´n Cerezo. By this time, the Baler garrison was about out of food, and most of the soldiers were either wounded or ill with tropical fevers. Captain Cerezo stated: “We anchored at Baler Bay on February 12, 1898, and relieved Captain Roldan’s decimated detachment. At least half the men were so sick that they had to be carried aboard the gunboat. We had no sooner moved into the church, than a heavy rainstorm caused the nearby river to overflow within a few feet of the building. This presented our first difficulty, since some of the supplies were still on the beach. They had to remain there for three days, and most of them were ruined by the continuous rain. These rations—plus those already stowed in the church—were the last we would ever see. “Our ammunition supply was adequate, but the same could not be said for the provisions. When the weather finally cleared and the boxes were brought up from the beach, we saw how much damage had been done. Another complication was the fact that the church supply room was exceedingly damp and lacked sunlight and ventilation. Because of all the spoiled rations, we sought to obtain the goodwill of the natives by buying food from them and not arguing about their prices. “Struggling along, therefore, against adversity and abandonment, the time came when we had nothing to make a fire with or material to repair clothing. There was not one extra pair of shoes, and we were soon forced to go barefoot. We continually appealed to headquarters for more support, but—bitter as it is to say—our cries for help were not listened to. There may have been good reasons for this neglect. I did not inquire what they were—nor examine or judge them. But the fact remains that from the day of our arrival at Baler Bay until our surrender fifteen months later, we did not receive one cartridge or one biscuit from the Spanish Government.” By early 1899 the siege of Baler had developed into an international affair that soon involved the United States Army and Navy in one of the strangest

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stories of the war. Navy Landsman Lyman P. Edwards was a sailor aboard the gunboat USS Yorktown. His memoirs of the gunfight on the Baler River, his capture by the Filipinos, and eventual rescue almost a year later have been edited with permission of his grandson, Joe Edwards. “On the morning of April 7, 1899, the USS Yorktown set sail from Manila bound for Baler on the northeast coast of Luzon. Our mission was to effect the rescue of about a hundred Spanish soldiers and three priests who had been under siege in the town’s church and convent for two years. “This was just another case of good old Uncle Sam being made the goat. The

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Catholic clergy of the Philippines had contacted our military authorities and asked for a relief expedition. This request was sent to Washington, where some astute politicians smelled an opportunity to garner Catholic votes by authorizing the mission and then taking personal credit for the action. At any rate, the order to attempt the rescue was immediately transmitted to Manila. This expedition really amounted to buying votes with our blood. The United States was under no obligation whatever to effect this release, as the Spanish government and the Catholic clergy in the islands had made no effort in this regard, but they were all very much concerned with our attempt to accomplish what they had ignored. “The Yorktown arrived at Baler Bay early on April 12. We spent some time trying to find an anchorage near shore, as the so-called bay was only an indentation in the coast and was very shallow. We were forced to anchor far out. “About noon, our skipper, Commander Charles S. Sperry, sent a boat ashore, under a flag of truce, to try and negotiate with the natives for the release of the Spaniards and priests. At first Commander Sperry tried to arrange a meeting by signals, but no one among the Filipinos understood the International Code. The natives were finally persuaded to come to the water’s edge. A two hour parley was held, but the Filipinos refused to release the garrison and the priests and asserted that they would resist any attempt to rescue the garrison by force. “Sperry worked out a plan whereby Ensign W. H. Standley and Quartermaster John Lysaught would be landed by boat and climb to the top of a high hill at the south edge of the bay. They would try to locate the town in respect to the church (we could see the bell tower from the ship), so that we could bombard the area without hitting too near the church. “About four o’clock the next morning, sixteen of us climbed aboard a whaleboat commanded by Lieutenant J. C. Gillmore. We left the ship with muffled oars and dressed in blue to blend with the night. After dropping off Ensign Standley and Quartermaster Lysaught, we returned to the ship. At daylight, we headed back to the shore to pick the men up. As we neared land, we were spotted by a Filipino lookout stationed in the tall grasses. The lookout ran for the jungle at top speed to warn his superiors of our approach. “Then, for some unexplainable reason, Lieutenant Gillmore entered the mouth of the Baler River and proceeded inland, despite the fact that, as far as we knew, his orders had been to remain by the shore. “After moving up the river about a quarter of a mile and rounding a sharp bend, we came under heavy rifle fire from the thick woods on the right bank. The embankment was about ten feet high and covered with dense jungle foliage. As it was early in the morning, the air was dense and misty, and we could not see any smoke from their rifles. As fate would have it, their first volley jammed our machine gun, which was mounted on the bow of the boat. We never were able to fire a shot from it. “John Dillon, sitting next to me, was shot in the forehead. C. A. Morrissey, E. J. Nygard, and O. B. M. McDonald were also killed. Several of us jumped overboard and tried to maneuver the boat out into the swift current of the river.

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Lieutenant Gillmore called out to D. G. A. Venville to raise a white flag. It was immediately shot out of his hand—the bullet striking him on the right wrist. Venville picked up and waved the flag with his left hand. The firing finally stopped. Our boat came to rest against a sandbar. It was riddled with bullets and was fast filling with water. “We were quickly surrounded by Filipino soldiers. The dead and severely wounded were left in the boat. The rest of us were marched to the town. The Filipino garrison at Baler numbered about a hundred natives—mostly armed with spears and bows and arrows. Some of the soldiers had old-style, singleshot Springfield rifles—shooting a lead slug about as large as a man’s thumb, using black powder, and sounding like a cannon when fired. “These rifles were supposedly sold to the Filipinos by the Germans, who obtained them from gunrunners, who bought them for next to nothing at a U.S. government surplus sale. Another blunder of Uncle Sam’s. For the price Washington received from them, it would have been much better to have dumped the rifles in the sea. “We were stripped of our clothing, except for T-shirts and trousers, and then lined up with hands tied behind our backs and made to kneel. Two natives for each prisoner stood about twenty paces in front of us. Each soldier carried a loaded Springfield rifle in his right hand, while his left held extra cartridges between the fingers—bullets pointing out. “We were not blindfolded. I closed my eyes. My heart was racing. I heard rifles being raised. Then suddenly the sound of hoofs. I opened my eyes in time to see an officer galloping down the riverbank on a small Spanish pony—waving his sword and shouting, ‘Alto! Alto!’ for halt! “Our execution was delayed. This was some relief—but not much. We still expected to be shot later. We were marched through the town to the Filipino commandant’s headquarters. Along the way, we had to dodge bullets, as the Spaniards, trapped in the church, were shooting at everything in sight. “The commandant asked us a lot of questions. Some of us could speak or understand Spanish—even I knew a few words. Paul Vaudoit knew the language fairly well. He had served as a seaman on a Spanish merchantman. The commandant said that he had no intention of executing us—it was just an honest mistake (some mistake!). He insisted that the Filipinos were a civilized people and wanted to conduct their revolt strictly according to International Rules of War. He also had some assurance that the Philippine army would be recognized by a number of foreign powers—and would receive financial help. “The commandant emphatically remarked that with modern arms, his men could give the Americans quite a battle—and they did. The nature of the country was favorable for guerrilla-type warfare. In many areas, supposedly controlled by our army, the natives toiling in the fields during daylight would at dark dig out their guns and knives and raid an outpost. They would then disappear as quickly and silently as they came. “The Baler detachment of the Philippine army was, for the most part, a prim-

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itive group. With the exception of the officers, their uniform was a G-string. The officers were armed with swords and sidearms, while the best weapon carried by the private soldier was the Springfield. “The commandant was an intelligent man and was very anxious to get rid of the Spanish troops holed up in the church. From the church’s bell tower he could oversee and control all the productive land in the area. Also, there was the problem of the local natives becoming victims of the Spanish sharpshooters. Although the commandant wanted to eliminate the Spanish army threat, he did not want to give up the priests. “In a last attempt to rescue ourselves and the Spaniards, Paul Vaudoit, who spoke fair Spanish, was persuaded to approach the church with a flag of truce and try to arrange a parley. Using a white handkerchief as a flag, Paul nervously advanced across the open field. However, as soon as he got close enough to the church to start a conversation, the Spaniards opened fire on him. He quickly dropped the flag and ran for it—luckily without being hit. “By now it was getting late in the day, and the Filipinos marched us to a temporary bamboo church that they were using. The structure was no more than a thatched roof, with no sides, and an improvised altar at one end. We carried the wounded on makeshift litters and asked permission to bury the dead, but the commandant advised us that he had already taken care of the matter. (I later learned that our dead comrades had been buried in a common grave on the riverbank.) “The next afternoon, the Yorktown fired several six-inch shells into Baler but came closer to hitting us than they did the town. The gunboat then put out to sea. We never could understand why no attempt was made to rescue us. Any well-armed landing party from the Yorktown could have taken the place. It was ironic that such a fuss was made in the United States about rescuing the Spaniards, but nothing at all was done on our behalf. “Venville was the most seriously wounded of our group. A lead slug had struck his cartridge belt, hit a shell, and drove it and part of the belt into his body. When the belt was removed, his small intestines were exposed—you could almost put your fist in the hole. An old, grizzled native looked at Venville’s open wound and said, ‘Me fix!’ He hurried off into the jungle and soon returned with some plants that looked like weeds. He then proceeded to squeeze liquid from the plants into the wound. This treatment was repeated a couple of times a day for three days. Miraculously the injury healed without any further attention. “We had heard rumors that we were to be moved inland. Then, one evening, we were told to be ready to travel. The next morning we were each given a small portion of rice and lined up ready to march. Our procession was like a circus parade and wild-west show all rolled into one—eight American prisoners and twenty-two native guards. Three of the Filipinos had rifles, the rest carried bows and arrows and spears. Venville and two other wounded (Woodbury and Rynders) remained at Baler to recuperate.

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“Our column marched along the riverbank all day without anything to eat. I counted that we forded the stream twenty-one times. At dusk, we camped in a boulder-strewn canyon. During the march, the guards rustled up a wild chicken and several bananas. Most of the guts of the bird and some of the feathers were removed. The chicken and the bananas were then boiled in a large earthen kettle until the mixture became a thick soup. We each received a half coconut shell of the watery soup—prisoners and guards alike. “Under normal circumstances, this journey would have been a fabulous vacation trip—beautiful flowers and amazing plants. The bananas we had for supper were larger than the ones we buy back home. They are not to be eaten raw, but when baked in hot coals with the skins on or peeled—or even boiled—they are very tasty and nutritious. “We had no sooner finished our soup, than it began to rain, and rain it did, all night long. Anyone who has ever lived through a tropical storm in the monsoon season realizes how hard it can rain. In fact, at times the rain comes down so heavy that it becomes hard to breathe. Fortunately, we had camped near a grove of palms with large fan-like leaves. We placed some of the leaves on the ground, and covered ourselves with others. Of course, this did not keep the water from running under us—and whenever we moved, the palm leaves covering our bodies would slide off. The natives, however, would squat on a boulder, place a palm leaf on their heads, sleep like that until morning, and keep perfectly dry. “At daylight we were on the trail again. That evening—after a difficult climb—we reached a pass that led to the top of a range of mountains. There was a small village at the summit. The natives were expecting us. They were excited, having never seen an American before. The whole village turned out to greet our procession. A special meal was prepared in our honor. They called it carne. It looked like beef, but I later found it was monkey meat—dry and tough—but we ate it and were glad to get it. “I saw my first iguana lizard here. It was about four feet long and was sleeping under the ceiling thatch of a hut. They are perfectly harmless, and the natives welcome them as they take care of the insect and rodent problems. “The following morning, we were given a small ration of rice and headed in the direction of Manila. We soon reached a valley. The countryside in this area was more thickly populated. As we passed through Cabanatuan, the local population was hostile. We were greeted with raised, clenched fists and shouts of ‘Death to the Americans!’ Many people spit at us and declared vengence, but there were no serious incidents. I later learned that several of the town’s inhabitants had been killed or wounded a few days before in a skirmish with American soldiers. “In order to counter some of the sensationalized accounts of our capture that appeared in many newspapers, I would like to state that—except for a few isolated cases—we received excellent treatment at the hands of our captors. To my knowledge, no prisoner was ever treated cruelly or beaten.

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“Our accomodations were very primitive, but it must be remembered that we were living on the same basis as the natives. As we continued our journey, we passed through several small villages that were crowded with wandering Spanish soldiers. The Filipinos had turned their captives loose to forage for themselves, as food was in short supply. “When we reached San Isidro, we were surprised to meet several other prisoners. Albert Sonnichsen had been a purser on a tramp steamer chartered by the U.S. army to haul troops and supplies. He was sightseeing one day and was captured by the Filipinos when he wandered too far beyond American lines. John O’Brien, an English subject, was seized while prospecting for gold in the mountains. David Brown, a Canadian ex-preacher, got drunk in Manila and was carried off by the natives. William Bruce and Elmer Honeyman, of the First Nevada Volunteer Cavalry, were also grabbed when they strayed too far from U.S. lines. There were about ten others who were captured in the same way. “All of the prisoners were hustled into the local jail. Our cell was a room— about twenty by thirty feet—with a platform of rough boards that ran along the walls. This was our bed, but there was no bedding of any kind. Some of the boys used bricks as pillows. As for myself, I used two bricks when lying on my side, and one when lying on my back. But sleep was almost impossible because of the hard planks and insects that bite. “I remember one incident, when Silvio Brisolese, an Italian boy from San Francisco, was asleep when saliva began running from his mouth. I thought he was sick and shook him awake, but he was only dreaming of home. It seems that his father owned a bakery, and Silvio drove a one-horse wagon to deliver the baked goods. Silvio was crazy about cream puffs. They were made like a roll and filled with flavored cornstarch. While making his early morning deliveries, he would sneak a few extra cream puffs into the wagon and eat them on his rounds. A few nights ago, Silvio was dreaming that he was munching the delicacies on California Avenue when I awakened him. To say he was upset would be putting it mildly, but from then on his name was ‘Puff!’ “Honeyman was a loner and had a pet monkey that he carried everywhere. He never smiled and always sat by himself, petting and talking to the animal. There was a corridor along one side of our jail cell that led to the latrine. The other day Honeyman was walking down the passageway just as I threw a cup of water through the bars, splashing the soldier. Honeyman, his face flushed with anger, rushed into our cell like a raving maniac and began hitting me and pounding my head against the wall. His fellow Nevadan, William Bruce, grabbed Honeyman and pulled him off me. Bruce shook Honeyman a few times, and told him that if he ever touched me again, he was a dead man. From that time on, Bruce and I were the best of friends. “There is no better gossip factory than a prison or jail, and the one at San Isidro was no exception. Practically every day, a new batch of rumors were whispered from one prisoner to another—most of them from despondent Spanish soldiers trying to sell information for food.

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“One rumor stated that the American fleet had suffered a terrible defeat off Cuba at the hands of the wonderful Spanish navy. Another said that a peace treaty had been signed, and Spain would retain Cuba and the Philippine Islands. The United States would also pay Spain a large indemnity for sinking their fleet at Manila Bay. Other reports making the rounds asserted that Aguinaldo had been killed—and so, on and on, no end. “We finally, however, heard a rumor that proved to be true. Ramon Rey, a Spanish intelligence officer who spent most of his time loafing around the jail, told us that the U.S. Army was preparing to advance on Malolos. A short time later, our guard was doubled, and we were told to prepare to move out. Supply carts were loaded, and we headed toward the mountains. Before we left, hospital corpsman Harry Huber took a piece of charcoal and wrote our names on the jail cell wall—just in case the Americans entered the town, they would know we were still alive. “We marched north toward Dagupan. This was the rainy season, and we trudged through thunderstorms, water, and mud all day. Most of us developed large blisters on our feet from the suction of the thick mud. That night we stopped at a small village, were given a bowl of rice for supper, and slept on a hard board floor. “The next day was more of the same—up early, a bowl of rice, and another long struggle through rain and mud. That night we stopped at a fair-sized village about forty miles north of the Lingayen Gulf. We were quickly thrown in jail without anything to eat. The guard at the door said that he knew nothing about food for us. We pounded on the prison bars and asked to see the officer in charge. When he failed to show up, we demanded to see the town’s mayor. An old, bearded gentleman soon arrived, but when we asked him for something to eat, he answered bitterly, ‘There’s plenty of air here—take all you want!’ His hostility only made us more angry, and we kept beating on the bars and demanding more food. Finally some villagers brought us a couple of bowls of frog legs and weevily rice. The weevils had eaten the meat off the legs, leaving nothing but skin and bones. But it was food. We mixed it all together and devoured every drop. “Early the next morning, we were on the road again. I also learned the reason for our ill-treatment. A few days earlier, a party of local soldiers on patrol had stopped to cook some rice. They found an American six-inch dud shell and a couple of rocks to set their pot on. The Filipinos were seated in a circle around the fire when the shell suddenly exploded, killing or wounding most of the men. “We reached Vigan late in the day and were immediately ushered into the local jail. We were imprisoned here for three months with the usual diet of rice and rumors. One promising piece of gossip reported that we would be getting a large shipment of food from the Red Cross. It finally arrived after a few weeks—a dozen small cans of meat and fruit. Evidently someone had helped themselves along the way. But who could blame them? The natives were starving too.

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“While at Vigan, our captors decided to give us our rations in money instead of rice. We were given ten centavos (five cents U.S.), and bought our food from peddlers through the jail bars. But, after buying water to fill a five-gallon kerosene can and firewood for cooking, rice was still all we could afford. “I had contracted dysentery on the march to Vigan, and the jail keeper took me to the hospital. The so-called hospital was nothing but a room on the second floor of a large stone and concrete building and consisted of a few slat bamboo beds with no bedding. This building had been the district’s Governor’s Palace, but when the revolt against Spain broke out, the Filipinos took it over as a hospital. The upstairs was divided into four rooms—two occupied by the chief doctor and his family, another by Spanish officers, and one by the sick that were too weak to help themselves. The entire first floor was used by the sick Spaniards and natives who were able to move about and were not bedridden. Although the Spaniards were prisoners of war the same as we Americans, they were allowed to go anywhere they pleased, but we were always under guard. “The chief doctor, Sen˜or Crisologo, had tried to have all the Americans sent to the hospital, but his request was not granted. However, it would have been selfish on our part to accept, as there were many very sick Filipinos and Spaniards who needed good shelter and medical care more than we did. “Another doctor at the hospital, Sen˜or Jose´ Gabino Castro, and Sen˜ora Crisologo were the good samaritans of the medical department. According to American newspaper reports, the Filipinos are described as savages. But I never met a lady with a more refined and loving disposition than Sen˜ora Crisologo. Sen˜or Castro was a young doctor and as broad-minded a man as I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Although he supported Aguinaldo’s fight for freedom, Castro had no animosity toward the Americans as individuals, but said that it was the policy of the U.S. government that he was against. At least once a day, Doctor Castro and Sen˜ora Crisologo would visit every sick person, offering consolation and often giving extra food to those who could not eat the regular diet of rice. “There was scarcely any medicine in the hospital. Many of the patients were afflicted with large ulcers on their feet caused by wading through the mud. The only treatment for this was to wash the wound in clean water and bandage it with cotton cloth from an old bed quilt. “Dysentery and fever were the main diseases. In one week, I witnessed fifteen deaths from these ailments. Along with their fever, some of the men suffered from a strange swelling of the arms and legs to the point at which the skin actually split open. “All of the American prisoners had either fever or dysentery, but we seemed to withstand them better than the natives or Spaniards. The only medicine the doctors had for dysentery was opium. It was in the form of a fine powder— dark brown in color—and had a flat, chalky taste. As I remember, Doctor Castro gave me about a half-teaspoonful of opium in a glass of water three times a day. In a short time, I was much better and returned to the jail. I can understand

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how anyone could become a drug addict. During my first few days on opium and water, I was in a perpetual stupor and had some wonderful dreams. “While in the hospital, I had the chance to talk to several prominent Filipinos—both civil and military. None of them had any illusions about driving the Americans from their country. But they had great hopes of holding out long enough to gain the support of a European power. The Filipinos had heard of William Jennings Bryan and his group agitating for Philippine independence. “I had only been back in jail for a few days when we learned that the American army was advancing north toward Vigan. Our guards quickly rounded us up, and we were on the trail again. We headed toward Bangued, the capital of Abra Province. “We really hit the jackpot this time. Bangued was in a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains. The altitude was higher and the weather more pleasant. The local jail was the cleanest we had been in so far, and the jailkeeper was good-natured. “Once again, our rations were paid in cash, ten centavos for each man—with the exception of Lieutenant Gillmore, who was given twenty centavos. We did our own cooking in a native kitchen—a far cry from the ones back home. This kitchen was a small room with a cupola in the middle of the roof to let the smoke out. There was also a stone box-like structure, about six feet square and two feet high. It was filled with dirt and some rocks to set pots on. There were a number of earthenware jars of various sizes and a few cast-iron skillets about fifteen inches in diameter. “Bruce and I made a deal with Gillmore that we would do all the cooking if he would put his twenty centavos in a kitty with ours, giving us a total of forty centavos to buy food. This deal suited Gillmore. He was very vain, and being an officer, he considered himself above the common man. “Gillmore was more or less a harmless guy—one who I assume would appear at his best in a cocktail lounge surrounded by young geisha girls who would swoon in the presence of anyone wearing an officer’s uniform covered with gold braid. In order for us not to look like his servants, especially in front of the natives, we made it pretty plain to Gillmore that he was just another prisoner. “A few days after our arrival at Bangued, we were given a very welcome surprise. The jailer told us that he would let us out at sunrise, but would expect us back at sundown. Being out of jail during daylight hours allowed us to add a variety of different items to our diet. “In the meantime, Bruce and I added John O’Brien to our kitchen and food detail. The three of us would go out into the foothills to a native village, locate a hut with chickens running around the yard, and ask to buy one. This was something new to the natives—the Spaniards would just take what they wanted. “Whenever we approached a house, the women would kneel, cover their faces with their hands, and touch their foreheads to the ground, while at the same time begin a wailing sing-song, meaning something like, ‘Oh master, have mercy!’

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“The women seemed greatly surprised when we told them that we wanted to buy a chicken. We would pick out a young rooster and ask the price. O’Brien would then take over and talk them down as low as possible. Thereupon, I would ask, ‘How much will you take off if we catch the chicken?’ (By the way, it was some job to run those chickens down.) “In order to raise additional money, I formed a class of five Chinese students teaching them to speak English. They ran a small food market, and each of them were supposed to pay me five centavos a week for a daily one-hour lesson. However, they persuaded me to take part of the money in trade, if they had anything I could use. Most of their meager stock was Chinese-style food—such as rotten eggs and some kind of candied peelings. I decided to take part of my pay in an occasional haircut and shave. Bruce and O’Brien had similar classes— when they could get pupils with money. “The natives in the hills around Bangued raised corn and would grind and eat it without milk. We would make mush out of this mixture, and any left over from supper was saved and fried for breakfast. This may not seem very appetizing, but it was a welcome change from the usual rice diet. Once and awhile we would get enough money ahead to buy some pork. “Southeast of the city a Spanish governor of Abra Province had built three large pools that were fed by a small spring. The first pool below the spring was for high-ranking Spanish officials, the next was reserved for minor officials, and the lowest pool was for the common Spaniard. We would go there quite often to bathe. There was no soap, but we could get the worst of the grime off. We would pile our clothes on the many anthills, and the ants would clean them of lice and other insects. However, we had to be very careful that no ants were left in the clothing, as they were large and their bite was worse than that of the other critters. “What little clothing we had was in tatters. Then one day a young native priest visited the jail and asked us to come to the church on the following day. We had no idea what he wanted but showed up at the specified time. The priest had noticed our raggedy, half-naked condition and put on a clothing drive. The local people supported the project with enthusiasm and donated a very odd assortment of clothes. All the prisoners received something. I was given a Chinese silk shirt and a straw hat—both welcomed, as the only clothing I had left was my pair of shredded Navy trousers. “In early November, the same priest came into possession of a young goat, and gave it to the prisoners. We could hardly wait until Thanksgiving. Every day the main topic of jail conversation was the fantastic feast we were going to have on the 30th, and at night we dreamed about it. “Throughout the month, we began acquiring special foods for our Thanksgiving dinner. On the evening of the 29th we killed the goat and got ready for the feast the next day. “Meanwhile, we had been hearing rumors that more prisoners would be joining us. They were the crew of a small dispatch steamer which had strayed too

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far north in Manila Bay, and the sailors were enticed ashore by native girls cavorting in the surf. “Shortly before dark, the captive sailors were escorted into the jail. They were twelve in number and very hungry. So, of course, we cooked the goat, and sat by and watched them eat most of it. Considering the circumstances, this was a noble deed. After whetting our appetites as we had, then to see our Thanksgiving dinner disappear before our eyes, was an unimaginable sacrifice. However, we enjoyed the experience to a certain extent in the grateful looks and kind words of our new companions. They repayed us by relating all the latest news from Manila and the outside world. “It was soon after this that O’Brien got into an argument with one of our guards and slugged the Filipino. We were sure that this would be his last day on earth. But instead O’Brien was thrown into a small cell on the second floor of the jail. The only opening was a barred door and a narrow platform with a stairway leading down to an exercise yard. A guard was stationed on the platform day and night. O’Brien had always been hot-headed and on this particular day decided to go down to the courtyard. A guard pushed O’Brien back with a rifle butt slammed against the American’s chest. O’Brien picked himself up from the floor and with one punch knocked the Filipino head over heels down into the yard. “After this episode I wouldn’t have given a dime for his life, but all our captors did was to send O’Brien to an outlying village where he was put in solitary confinement. “It was about this time that General Manuel Tinio—commanding officer of the northern provinces—arrived at Bangued with several companies of soldiers. A number of executions were immediately carried out—mostly for desertion and spying. We were invited to watch—probably to show us that we could be next. “The soldiers marched the spies and deserters to the local cemetery and had each man dig his own grave and then stand at the head of the pit. Three soldiers stood about twenty paces in front of each person to be executed. Only one soldier’s rifle had real bullets, the other two had blanks so that no one knew who actually killed the prisoner. In order to conserve on ammunition, some of the guilty were run through with a spear. “Rumors persisted that the American army was still advancing north, and the actions of our guards and local citizens seemed to indicate that our troops were approaching Bangued. The town was quickly becoming a scene of confusion— men, women and children leaving the city. Some carrying household goods, others herding pigs, chickens, and ducks. This frantic exodus from Bangued started early on December 4 and continued throughout the day and all during the night. “Before daylight on the 5th of December, O’Brien was brought back to the jail, and we were ordered to get ready to march. This did not take long as our earthly belongings consisted of very little. We were lined up in front of the

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Governor’s Palace. General Benito Natividad was standing on the balcony above us issuing instructions to his staff officers as they rode in from the front. “The general gave our guards a short talk, but only one remark was of interest to us—any prisoner who attempted to escape would be shot without hesitation. We quickly joined the refugee column that was trying to escape the advancing Americans. It was not long after our start that many civilians began dropping out of the procession and returning to Bangued. “We hiked about fifteen miles and camped just before dark at the village of Danglas. The prisoners were quartered in a bamboo shack on stilts about seven feet above the ground. The dwelling had one large and one small room separated by a bamboo divider. O’Brien, Bruce, and I managed to grab the small room for ourselves. A flimsy ladder was attached to the far side of the platform, and we decided to try and escape as soon as it became good and dark. “We laid awake all night watching for a chance to get away, but troops kept straggling through the town until almost daybreak. Another deterrent was the fact that General Tinio was disbanding a number of his soldiers and had ordered all married troops to return to their homes. This decision created a great deal of confusion in the village, and there was no chance for us to escape. “Realizing that we could not slip away unseen, we decided upon another strategy. I was to take a water jar, climb down to the foot of the ladder, and ask the sentry’s permission to go to the river for water. In the meantime, while I was talking to the guard, Bruce and O’Brien would sneak off the other side of the platform and hide in a canebreak near the river. “The pathway to the stream was a narrow trail that had been cut through the cane and just wide enough for one man. I expected two guards to go with me— one in front and one in back—as was customary. Bruce and O’Brien would ambush the guards on the path and knock them out with clubs. “Shortly before daybreak the plan was put into effect. For some reason, however, no guards were sent with me. When I reached the location of my two friends, they could hardly believe that I was alone. We hurried down to the river and swam across, leaving the jar adrift midstream. “After hiking about a quarter of a mile, we came to a small hill, heavily timbered on the slopes and topped with a large, flat rock. By this time, the sun was coming up and we began searching for somewhere to hide out during the heat of the day. There were no caves on the hill, so we concealed ourselves among the rocks and bushes near the edge of the slope facing the river. From this location we could see if anyone came hunting for us. “We really suffered that day. The three of us were not only sick with dysentery, but were roasting in the hot sun. We could have kicked ourselves for not keeping that jar and filling it with water. In the distance, we could hear the native drums beating the alarm that we had escaped. And, from our hiding place, we watched the enemy soldiers searching for us. They would surround a thicket, while a few men would cut their way through with bolo knives. It reminded me of an Oklahoma rabbit hunt.

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“During the morning, we were suddenly discovered by a gang of monkeys darting among the trees. They set up such a chatter that I was afraid they would give us away. We threw stones into the foliage, hoping to drive them off. But this only brought more monkeys and more noise. We finally decided to remain quiet, and they left after their curiosity had been satisfied. “As soon as it became dark, we started down the hill, being very careful not to leave any tracks. O’Brien and I were barefooted, while Bruce wore shoes. The Filipinos knew this, so we had to erase every footprint as we sneaked quietly through the woods. “We made our way down to the river and waded and swam for about a mile until we found a rocky spot where it would be safe to come ashore. We then headed east and soon came upon the main road to Bangued. This was a welltraveled path, and we did not have to worry about leaving tracks. We had no sooner reached the road than we heard horses. We dove into a ditch just as a Filipino cavalry troop galloped past. “We waited about twenty heart-pounding minutes before continuing our journey. We passed many natives on the road, but they seemed so intent on getting away from the ‘Americanos’ that they paid little attention to us. We soon reached the Abra River ferry landing and could see Bangued across the water. We quickly entered the woods and moved a few hundred yards downstream until we found a safe place to cross. We swam against a strong current but finally reached the far shore about a mile below where we entered the water. “We looked like three drowned rats when we climbed up on the riverbank. We were footsore and weak but had to enter Bangued to ascertain if the Americans were there or not. The parade of people we had met along the road suggested that if our troops had not yet reached the city, they were close. “We took a short rest and discussed our next move. We had to find a place to hide during the day and get something to eat. We cautiously sneaked into the city and made our way up a dark, narrow alley that led to the plaza and government buildings. If there were any soldiers around, Filipino or American, they would be here. But, upon reaching the plaza, white flags were flying from every building. The door to the jail—where I had spent three long months—was standing open, likewise the doors to the Governor’s Palace. Not one person could be seen. “We held a council-of-war to decide what to do next—hide out in the mountains, or make a bamboo raft and float downriver to Vigan, a distance of about thirty miles. “Hunger got the best of us though. As soon as it became dark we decided to go to the home of our former jailer, who had always been friendly to us. On nearing his house, we noticed a small light at the top of the stairs. This was a fateful decision to make—asking our enemy for help. But there was no other choice—we did not have the strength to climb into the foothills and hide. I was selected to go to the door. Bruce positioned himself on the street side of the

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house, and O’Brien covered the alleyway. They were to sound an alarm—barking like a dog—if they saw any enemy soldiers. “I must confess that I was sweating when I climbed the stairs—and it wasn’t from the heat. My heart pounded like it was about to burst through my chest as I knocked softly on the door. I waited and waited—I don’t know how long. Then suddenly the door was opened a crack, and someone asked who was there. I identified myself as Edwards, one of the American prisoners. Momentarily the jailer came to the door. He opened it wide and invited me inside. I remarked that I had two companions outside, and he told me to have them come up. “There was a low chest near the door. A few bolo knives had been placed on top. As soon as O’Brien came in the room, he sat down on the chest, covering the knives with his body. He told me later, that if anything started, we would have something to fight with. “A few other men were in the room, but the jailer did all the talking. He gave each of us a bowl of cold rice and fish. While we were filling our stomachs, he told us about an American army officer who rode an ‘enormous horse’ (the Filipinos only had small ponies) and about a hundred soldiers who were marching north into Abra Province. “This advancing force later proved to be Colonel Robert L. Howze and three skeleton companies of the Thirty-fourth U.S. Volunteer Infantry. Howze had been campaigning in Central Luzon, when he heard rumors that a number of Americans were being held as prisoners at Bangued. He acted—not contrary to orders, but without them—and set out to rescue us. “Colonel Howze and his troops reached Bangued about noon on the same day that we were hustled off to Danglas. The colonel did not waste any time—he headed toward La Paz, where he thought the prisoners would be taken. Imagine our joy upon learning that his force was now camped at La Paz, only a dozen miles distant. “Sen˜or Mateo, who ran the ferry service, had one of his men show us the way. As tired as we were, we pushed our bodies to the limit, and about 4 A.M. on December 6, 1899, reached the foot of a hill below where the army was camped. O’Brien laid down and refused to go any farther. I told him that he might be discovered by Filipino soldiers and killed, but he said, ‘What of it! That would be a relief!’ “We left O’Brien feeling sorry for himself, and Bruce and I began to climb the hill. We were about halfway to the top, when we heard the welcome words— shouted in English—‘Halt! Who goes there?’ We immediately identified ourselves and were escorted into the campsite. A detail was sent out to rescue O’Brien. “The entire camp turned out to welcome us, and we had our first cup of hot coffee in months. We were then advised to get some sleep. Major Julius Penn, from Cincinnati, Ohio, shared his blanket with me. He was taking quite a chance. I was filthy dirty and covered with fleas and lice. “We were up early the next morning and prepared to move out with the

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troops. For breakfast I had a meal that I appreciated more than any I can remember—Swift’s Premium bacon, hardtack and coffee. The regiment’s cook had three cans of bacon left and gave them to us. From then on it would be hardtack and water buffalo meat that was so tough we could hardly chew it. “At daybreak, we were on the march to Danglas, hoping to rescue the captive Americans. But by the time we reached the village, the Filipinos and their prisoners had disappeared into the mountains. “One of the Americans, F. W. Langford, was a Pabst Beer agent. He had been captured while delivering a barge full of beer to an outpost up the Pasig River. Langford had a box of large marking crayons, and at every opportunity he would write a Pabst sale-price offer on a boulder or the face of a cliff. The Filipinos tried to rub out the marks, but were only partly successful. These signs were a great help in following the trail of the prisoners. “Because we knew a little Spanish, Bruce and I were assigned to the advance scouts—a detachment made up of Macabebe tribesmen. We met with some resistance from the enemy’s rear guard but soon moved out of the jungle and onto a high plateau covered with a thick growth of waist high grass. Some of the Texas boys remarked that it would make a great cattle ranch. “The Filipinos were retreating in such a hurry that the plateau was strewn with broken down carts loaded with personal effects, rifles and ammunition. We destroyed the guns by bending the barrels and breaking the stocks. Cartridges were scattered as far as we could throw them into the thick brush or down a rocky ravine. “Upon reaching the western edge of the mesa, we entered a canyon that our chief Macabebe scout said would lead to the coastal plain near Laoag. The canyon deepened as we advanced. Filipino soldiers could be seen darting from tree to tree and shooting at us. “The canyon suddenly took a sharp turn to the left and another bend to the right. Moments later, the enemy opened a heavy fire from the left bank of the second turn. We were ordered to take cover and hold our position until Captain Frank G. Russell and Company F could execute a flanking maneuver. “As soon as Russell and his men gained the top of the canyon bluff, they attacked the insurgents from above. The Filipinos abandoned their hiding places behind the rocks and tried to escape. Then we opened fire from below. It was a terrible slaughter. I have never forgotten it. “We emerged from the canyon about sundown and surprised a squad of enemy soldiers guarding a building that was being used for rice storage. The Filipinos fled when they saw us, and we camped here for the night. “Colonel Howze ordered the troops to line up, and each man was told to take as much rice as he thought he could carry in his knapsack. Howze then wrote a letter and attached it to the building’s door stating the number of bushels removed, and if the owner would present this letter and a bill to the nearest U.S. Army headquarters, full payment would be made. “At daylight the following morning, December 10, we continued our march.

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Enemy soldiers shadowed us from the left flank, and we expected an attack at any moment, but it never developed. At Banna, we captured a number of insurgents and a large quantity of rice which we distributed to the natives. “A few dwellings were being used as a hospital, and wounded Filipinos lay on the bare floor with no bedding or apparent medical care. As O’Brien and I were about to enter one of the buildings, an armed enemy officer dashed through the door. He wore a fancy cartridge belt, two nickle-plated pistols, and a sword—probably all seized from a high-ranking Spanish officer. Before he had a chance to decide which weapon to use first, I demanded that he unfasten the belt and surrender—which he did. “We reached Laoag on the 13th and were met by Colonel Luther Hare with about two hundred men of the Thirty-third U.S. Volunteer Infantry. They had marched up the coast, and Hare had arranged for a ship to meet him near the city with shoes and clothing. This was welcome news. Not only were Bruce, O’Brien and I shoeless, but Colonel Howze and his troops had hiked 350 miles and were practically barefoot. “After making camp, all the sick and wounded were put aboard the ship and sent back to Manila. The fresh uniforms were distributed, and I received a shirt and a pair of shoes. But my feet were so sore and banged up that I was able to get along better without them. I went barefoot for more than a year. “Colonel Hare was the senior officer present and was now in command of both regiments. He was a tall, good-looking Texan and well-liked by all the men. Hare’s orders were to rescue the American prisoners, and the three of us former captives begged to go along on the expedition. In my enthusiasm, I said something about getting even with the insurgents for the way we were treated. The colonel gave me a stern look. He took me aside and gave me a lecture that I’ll never forget: ‘Never do anything for revenge, even though at the time it seems justified. It will invariably end up hurting you—maybe not physically, but worse. We must remember that the Filipinos also believe that their cause is just. Time will tell who is right.’ “After the scolding, however, Colonel Hare permitted us to join the march. The following day, we headed into the foothills. The trail quickly became narrow and difficult. Horses and ponies had to be left behind. Colonel Howze was forced to part with his fine bay gelding. I have often wondered if he ever got his horse back. “On the second day of the trek, we came to a high rolling plateau covered by tall, thick evergreens. All the trees were about the same size, and the ground was covered by a three or four inch mat of pine needles. “As we moved higher into the mountainous terrain, the giant pines were replaced by oak trees and thick undergrowth. Travel became slower and more difficult, but we had no trouble following the trail. The Pabst salesman was still managing to list his beer prices wherever he found a smooth surface to write upon. “We made camp at 6,000 feet alongside a mountain brook and the next morn-

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ing continued our hike through the high country. In the late afternoon, we came to a fork in the path and followed freshly made shoe tracks to the right. We soon emerged from the forest and began a steep descent through a thick canebreak that ended near a large bamboo hut in the middle of a clearing. The Macabebe scouts silently surrounded the open field. The main body of troops was then ordered to move up. Suddenly the enemy discovered us and opened fire. Colonel Hare called upon the insurgents to surrender. This was met with more rifle shots. Hare ordered the scouts to rush the house. It was here that I killed the only man I was sure of. It seems there was another group of enemy soldiers down the trail below the cabin. They hurried back at the sound of shooting. I saw this one man coming up the ravine. He noticed me about the same time. He was raising his rifle to fire as I pulled the trigger. He fell backwards and tumbled down the gully. “Moments after our troops began firing into the hut, a large six-foot soldier— Sergeant Frank McDonald—crashed through the wall and dropped eight feet to the ground waving his arms and shouting, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! For God’s sake don’t shoot! Americans are in there!’ “As cease firing was ordered, four natives jumped out of the house and escaped into the jungle. Upon entering the shack, we found several wounded and dead Filipinos and three prisoners. The Americans didn’t have a scratch on them. They had been forced to lie on the floor during the gun battle. “McDonald and the three other prisoners had escaped from their captors a few days earlier. When they came to the junction of the trails, they fled down the left hand path but soon found their escape blocked by a wide river. While deciding on their next move, the Americans met a couple of natives carrying bundles of tobacco who agreed to escort them to the coast. The natives guided the Americans back up the trail to the crossroads. They told McDonald that the main body of insurgent soldiers and their captives had already left the path and were heading deeper into the mountains. “Believing that the road was now clear, the Americans hurried down the trail. But, they had not counted on a laggard enemy rear guard. McDonald and the others were recaptured and brought to the house where we found them. The rear guard detachment stopped at the hut to rest and cook some rice. However, they failed to establish an outpost and were caught unawares. “While in the shack, the captives discovered that the other American prisoners had already been there. They had scrawled their names on the walls and drew a skull and crossbones, with the word ‘revenge’ written below. “The next morning, we were on the march again. The Macabebe scouts were sent out ahead on both flanks—climbing trees and cliffs to smell out any evidence of an ambush. The scenery was beautiful, but we were in no state of mind to appreciate the landscape. It was now a matter of survival. We were moving up into the high country. The air was thinner, and we were ordered to discard any extra weight. We were also running out of food, and the only wild

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life around were a number of monkeys. But they did not appeal to most of us— too much like eating your cousin. “We continued our slow trudge into the mountains. Then, on Christmas Eve 1899, a scout reported a village ahead. It was a fairly large settlement—probably the headquarters of a district chief. Colonel Howze organized a party to surround the area. This tactic was to prevent the natives from fleeing and taking their foodstuffs and animals with them. This was the usual custom of the mountain people when they sensed danger. “Upon the approach of strangers, each villager had a specific job to perform. Women and girls would grab a chicken under each arm and dash into the jungle, while young boys would chase the hogs into the woods. One group of men would take rice and other food to a hiding place. A few natives would plant small, sharp spears of green bamboo along the path leading to their village and cover them with a layer of vines and leaves. “It was slow progress and took a lot of patience to navigate one of these paths without running the bamboo darts through your feet. And it always gave the natives time to escape with their goods. We had learned the lesson the hard way and this time were more careful in our approach. We managed to capture two hogs and a small quantity of rice when we surprised the village. But you should have seen the soldiers slice up those hogs—skin and all—and fry the meat in their mess kits. The animals did not go very far with more than one hundred men to feed. “While exploring the village, we found a few stacks of unthreshed rice that had been tied into bundles with straw. Our scouts informed us that the unthreshed grain would keep better than the threshed and would less likely be infested by weevils. The stacks of rice had been set on posts of polished hardwood to discourage rodents from climbing them. “We also discovered several wooden mortars and pestles, and the soldiers worked in relays threshing the grain. Each man ended up with a tablespoon of rice. “Early the next morning, a Macabebe scout rushed into camp and reported to Colonel Howze that he had reached the Abulug River canyon and sighted the American captives. They were among a group of men from a tribe of headhunters. “Howze planned a cautious strategy. He sent out three details of scouts—one to advance from the front, while the other two protected the flanks. The scouts were instructed to approach as close as possible to the people without being seen. Then, upon hearing Colonel Howze fire three shots in the air, they were to jump up—shouting and screaming as loud as they could to scare the headhunters off. They were also told not to shoot for fear of hitting the Americans. “The ruse worked to perfection. The natives scattered and quickly disappeared into the woods. When the prisoners saw us, they went wild—yelling, laughing and crying. When the excitement finally died down, the Americans began telling their story. They had been abandoned by their guards two days ago. The Filipino

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in charge of the guards left his name and address with the Americans and asked that they say a good word for him when they get back to Manila. He also remarked that he had orders from General Tinio to take the captives up in the mountains and kill them, but he could not bring himself to do it. “The captives offered the guard leader money if he would leave them a few rifles and ammunition, but the Filipino refused and left the area with his men. “A small tribe of headhunters soon befriended the freed prisoners. They gave the Americans some rice and were helping them build bamboo rafts when our scouts arrived on the scene. We set to work to finish the rafts, but it was an uphill job without bolo knives. “About noon the next day, the Macabebe scouts reported that they had seen a sizable group of Igorot natives—probably from the village where we had threshed the rice. Colonel Howze picked me and a scout to accompany him, and we set out to meet the Igorot tribesmen. “We did not carry weapons and approached the natives peacefully. Using sign language and a few well-chosen words, our scout asked the tribal chief how far we were from the coast. “The chief answered with his own form of sign language. He faced the east, then pointed to the sun. He next made an imaginary circle with his fingers, raised his hand in an arc over his head, and pointed to the western horizon. He then made another circle and held up seven fingers. There it was—as plain as speaking or writing—seven days. Of course, the Igorot was estimating time as his people would travel—not a large group of sick, wounded and half-starved men. “Colonel Howze offered the chief a reward if he would send a few of his natives to guide us to the coast, but he refused. The Igorot stated that several years ago some Spanish soldiers were lost in this canyon. The chief sent a few men to escort them to safety, but they never returned to the village. Then the chief made a motion with his hand across his throat, indicating that they had been killed. “Our scouts told us that the river route to the coast was dangerous, but we had no other choice. All able-bodied men were put to work building enough rafts to carry the sick and wounded. Bruce, O’Brien and I put together a raft made of bamboo poles, about six inches in diameter, and eighteen feet long. It was braced with several cross-members and lashed securely with vines. As soon as the rafts were ready, they were put in the water and the invalids were placed aboard. The rest of the troops followed along the shore. “As with all mountain streams, there were frequent rapids and quiet water in between. In some places, the river flowed beneath sheer rock walls a few hundred feet high. The current would run against one cliff for a time and then the opposite bluff. “Frequent sandbars slowed our progress, as it was necessary to carry the sick and wounded across them. The officers held a conference, and it was decided to send a small party ahead to bring aid. There was no assurance that help would

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be found at the coast, but our scouts remarked that the river flowed into the sea at Aparri, a fairly large size town. “Colonel Howze picked his adjutant and me to join him on the trip downstream. I like to think that the colonel took me along because of the slight knowledge of Spanish I had learned over the past many months. But, I imagine that compassion would probably be closer to the truth. At the time, I was a forlorn-looking kid with a mop of tangled long hair, a scraggly beard, and raw sores all over my legs and feet. “We selected the strongest raft, lashed our rifles and ammunition to the bamboo platform, and set out downriver. We almost overturned a few times until we left the canyon and the river widened. After floating about a mile, we came upon two natives who had just killed a small deer and were cooking part of it over a fire. Upon seeing us, they fled into the brush—leaving their dinner and an outrigger canoe. We loaded the cooked meat into the canoe and continued our journey in the outrigger. Colonel Howze left a generous amount of money to pay for what we had taken. “We were now making good time, thanks to a swift current and an ebb tide. The terrain began to slope gently as we neared the coast. Minutes later, we noticed a town off to the right and a ship to our left. Although we could not be sure if the ship was friendly, Howze decided to take a chance. We ran the outrigger ashore, took our weapons with us, and began walking in the vessel’s direction. “As we neared the ocean, the adjutant removed his shirt, tied the sleeves to a long tree branch, and waved it back and forth. Within a few minutes a small boat was seen putting off from the ship. Colonel Howze was cautious in case it was an enemy vessel. He stood out in the open, while his aide and I moved in and out of the brush to give the impression that there were more than just the three of us on the shore. “Then suddenly we could make out the uniform of an American naval officer in the bow and white garbed sailors at the oars. The relief from tension was almost too much to bear. The boat quickly ran up on the beach. Howze identified himself, and the sailors helped us aboard the cutter. Many questions were asked and attempts made to answer, but everyone was talking at once. On the way back to the ship—the USS Princeton—Howze briefed the boat officer on the condition of the soldiers and former prisoners up the Abulug River canyon. “We were a sorry-looking trio when we reached the deck of the warship. I was taken to sick bay, handed a stiff drink of whiskey, deloused, bathed, and given a haircut and shave. I had weighed 165 pounds when captured but now could barely manage 110 pounds. One of the ship’s crew brought me a clean white uniform. I had been wearing my Navy blue trousers day and night for nine months. They were taken to the boiler room and burned. I was told to lie down and get some sleep. But sleep was out of the question. The excitement was too great—especially when I learned that the date was January 1, 1900. What a New Year’s Day present that was!

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“Within an hour, a relief party had been organized—equipped with medical supplies and food—and set out to find our comrades. The rescue detail left the ship in three boats. They headed upriver to the first rapids and then on foot until they reached the ex-prisoners and soldiers. On the evening of January 4, a cutter came in with some of the sick and wounded. The others arrived the next day. “The decks of the Princeton were jammed with a bunch of happy men as we hoisted anchor and headed back down the coast of Luzon. Some of the soldiers disembarked at Vigan, while the rest of us continued on to Manila Bay. “The Yorktown captives were taken to Cavite. Our personal effects had been removed from the ship and stowed at the navy yard for all these months. When we entered the storage room, a pitiful sight met our eyes. Hammocks, mattresses, ditty boxes and clothing were scattered in a jumbled mess on the floor. The roof must have leaked, as everything was covered with a thick growth of green mold. Large red ants were running everywhere. All the ditty boxes had been broken open and anything of value stolen. “We were a sad looking group of sailors when we saw the condition of our belongings—knowing that we would have to draw complete new uniforms and pay for them out of our meager wages. “The little money I had in my ditty box was gone, but this was not unusual considering that most sailors never had any money two days after payday. After paying their debts, they would lose the balance gambling, even though it was against Navy regulations. Practically every ship had one or more card sharks aboard. They would stay on as long as they could get anyone to play with them. Then they would desert the ship, change their name and appearance, and enlist on another vessel. “In addition to losing everything, I learned to my dismay, that after our capture we were carried on the Navy’s books for three months, then declared dead, and given no further credit for wages or ration allowance. I filed a claim with the Bureau of Navigation but was politely informed by the bureau’s chief that there was no provision in the rules for reimbursement of loss except in the case of shipwreck or other marine disaster. In his opinion, my hardship did not seem to fall into either category. “Evidently walking all over the island of Luzon—zigzagging back and forth at least 500 miles, barefooted and wearing nothing but a pair of Navy trousers, was not considered a disaster. “I put the blame for our situation on the Yorktown’s captain. Commander Sperry should have had our personal effects stowed in a protected storeroom— the valuables invoiced and placed in care of the paymaster for safekeeping—to be either returned to us or our next of kin. This was the usual method of handling the possessions of missing men. “My feet were not getting any better, and I had a carbuncle-type sore on top of my right foot that refused to heal because of my anemic condition. I was soon transferred to the USS Solace, a hospital ship, for return to the United States.

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“The ship doctors told all us former prisoners that the lack of sufficient food had caused our stomachs to shrink. We were supposed to get five small meals a day to stretch our stomachs. But the average Navy cook hates himself and everyone else. To get him to do anything contrary to regulations is a lost cause. “The Solace carried a boatload of sick and wounded men—most of them also with sick minds. But, I guess I wasn’t too well-balanced myself, and conditions aboard ship were, to say the least, not very helpful. Several men attempted suicide by jumping overboard. All were rescued but one man.” After his discharge from the U.S. Navy, Lyman P. Edwards engaged in several successful business ventures. He also kept in contact with several of his fellow prisoners and rescuers: “I had not heard from John O’Brien in quite some time. Then one day I received an envelope containing a clipping from a Los Angeles newspaper dated July 27, 1908. The article stated that O’Brien was found in his hotel room with a bullet through the heart. Nearby was a handwritten note stating, ‘I guess that I have seen everything, and so am going to toss a coin. If it comes up tails, I will end it all. If it’s heads, I will go on living.’ On the floor alongside the body was a dime—tails side up. “As far as the fate of some of the others is concerned, William Bruce died of tuberculosis while living in Manila. F. W. Langford was killed on Basilan Island in the Philippines by a band of rampaging natives. Elmer Honeyman spent his last years in the Old Soldiers Home at Napa, California. “Albert Sonnichsen became a writer and published a book, Ten Months a Captive among the Filipinos. He became a war correspondent during the First World War and was falsely reported lost at sea, having fallen overboard while on a ship in the South Pacific. In reality, Sonnichsen continued his writing career and died at his home in Connecticut in 1921. “The treacherous David Brown is one person that we will never forget. While at Vigan, we heard a rumor that the U.S. Navy was going to attack and capture the city. To gain favor with the enemy, Brown told the Filipinos that he was an army intelligence officer and, if permitted to remain at Vigan, he would intercede for them with the Americans. As a result, Brown managed to live better than the rest of us. He also acquired the nickname of “Arnold” after the traitor Benedict Arnold. “But, when the naval landing did not come off and the army was reported advancing overland from the south, Brown decided that he had better join the prisoners on the march to Bangued before his masquerade was discovered. “Nothing more was heard of Brown for many years until a Chicago newspaper, dated July 5, 1929, reported that he had been arrested as a drunken derelict, sprawled in a gutter on the city’s west side. “Concerning the Yorktown captives, Jack Ellsworth was always a man of mystery. After our return to the States, he revealed that his real name was Ellsworth Everett Pinkham from Kittery Point, Maine. He deserted from a Navy ship, changed his name to Jack Ellsworth, and married a Kanaka girl. He then

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enlisted on the Yorktown. A letter from his brother relating these facts also stated that Ellsworth died on April 29, 1925. “As for our rescuers, I kept up a correspondence with Julius Penn for many years. He was a mild mannered man and a perfect gentleman. The first time that I met him, he did not impress me as an efficient officer, but he was a good one and highly regarded by his men. Penn later became a major general and was the U.S. Army’s Adjutant General at the time of his death on May 13, 1934. “Robert Howze had a long and illustrious military career. In 1916 he participated in General Pershing’s expedition into Mexico. A few months after America’s entry into World War I, he was appointed a major general, and led the 38th Division overseas. The division fought in the vicious battles of the MeuseArgonne offensive where Howze earned the Silver Star. He was later awarded the Distinguished Service Medal for commanding the 3rd Division on its march to the Rhine. Robert Howze was also honored by the French government with the Croix de Guerre and was made a member of the Legion of Honor. “I remember Howze as a tall, good-looking Texan. If ever a man was born to command, he was one. He did not drive his men—he led them. When we were on the move, he was always in the front—moving methodically up and down the line—encouraging the men—helping them forget their sore feet, tired bodies, and empty stomachs. “At night he would visit the different companies and engage the soldiers in conversation, keeping their minds off their troubles. He never seemed to be tired. When in contact with the enemy, he issued orders in an authoritative manner that meant they were to be obeyed to the letter—and they were. Howze was a down-to-earth individual and highly respected by his men. He died at Columbus, Ohio on September 19, 1926 as the result of a surgical operation. “I’m sorry that I don’t know more about Luther Hare, except that he died of cancer of the throat on December 22, 1929, at Walter Reed Hospital. I remember him as a tall man with slightly gray hair—rather quiet and soft spoken—and well-liked by everyone.” Although Edwards kept in touch with several of his fellow former prisoners and rescuers after the war, his memoirs make no further mention of Lieutenant James Gillmore. He had blamed the naval officer for the tragic gunfight at Baler and the subsequent capture of the American sailors. There may have been hard feelings between the two men which would account for the lack of additional information about Lieutenant Gillmore. Lyman P. Edwards died in February 1964 at the age of eighty-four years.

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The Paran˜aque Campaign: Joseph Donovan’s Story In late May 1899, General Lawton’s First Division assembled at San Pedro Macati, preparatory to driving Aguinaldo’s forces from the territory between the lake and Manila Bay. The terrain was rugged—cut by deep ravines and overgrown with tall grasses and chaparral. A war correspondent for the Boston Herald described the evening before the expedition set out: “Tents were not put up. The men slept on the bare ground— even though a heavy rain poured down for more than an hour. But the soldiers only laughed at their discomfort, for in the gentle air of these favored isles, rain, however much it dampens the body, seldom chills. Then again, the lust for war was boiling in their veins, and they knew that tomorrow would reveal the terrible beauty of skilled and legal murder!” Lawton’s division of 4,500 men consisted of two brigades commanded by Generals Samuel Ovenshine and Loyd Wheaton. Ovenshine’s battalions consisted of the Twelfth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth U.S. Infantry Regiments supported by the Sixth U.S. Artillery. Wheaton’s battalions included troops from the Ninth and Twenty-first U.S. Infantry and the First Colorado Volunteer Regiment. At 5 A.M. on June 10, 1899, the division began its advance east along the shore of the Pasig River. Upon reaching the Guadalupe Ridge, Ovenshine’s brigade turned southwest toward Manila Bay, while Wheaton’s regiments moved down the shore of Laguna de Bay. Both brigades were to join up near Paran˜aque. About 7 A.M. as the Colorado troops neared the lake, a strong enemy force, entrenched on a hilltop stood up in the rifle pits and opened fire. The Americans scattered for cover, but Lieutenant Colonel Cassius Moses rallied his men and they charged up the slope. The Filipinos were driven from their position, but Moses was wounded as he jumped into an enemy trench.

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There was no shade to protect Wheaton’s brigade as it advanced along the shore of the lake. The hot sun beat down unmercifully on the troops. The soldiers soon began discarding their blanket rolls and haversacks, and many stripped to the waist. Canteens quickly became bone-dry. A terrible thirst consumed the men. Many suffered sunstroke and dropped out of the march and became easy pickings for snipers. About 3 P.M. Wheaton’s column turned west toward Manila Bay. All along the route of march, however, his troops were stalked by enemy sharpshooters hiding in trees. Lieutenant Joseph L. Donovan, Company F, Twenty-first U.S, Infantry, wrote in his report: “The Twenty-first reached Las Pin˜as by late afternoon and camped for the night. It was a restless sleep. A tropical thunderstorm raged until morning—followed by the Philippine heat. As one soldier put it, ‘It ain’t the hotness, it’s the wetness of the hotness!’ “In the middle of the night, some of our pack animals stampeded—so did a company of troops encamped near the commotion. They were sent back to Manila as unfit for service. “Our only sources of water were the pools formed by the night’s rain. But the water buffalo found them first and stirred up the mud. The thirsty men were desperate for water. Using their filthy handkerchiefs, they strained the wet sludge through the cloth for any precious drops of fluid.” Before daybreak on June 12, Wheaton’s brigade headed for Paran˜aque, entering the city about 7 A.M. Meanwhile, Ovenshine’s regiments had crossed the Guadalupe Ridge and advanced cautiously through the tall grasses. As they reached the open rice fields, enemy soldiers—hiding behind the dikes—opened fire. The Americans rapidly formed a skirmish line. Artillery was called up and pounded the Filipino defenses. Ovenshine ordered his men to move forward, but progress through the swampy fields was slow. Scouts finally found a path skirting the marshland. The enemy was flanked and chased into the surrounding woods. General Ovenshine’s brigade reached Paran˜aque a few hours after Wheaton’s troops had arrived. Lieutenant Donovan continued his account: “On the morning of the 13th, General Lawton ordered a reconnaissance in the direction of Bacoor. I was placed in command of the mission. I picked two companies of the Twenty-first Infantry—Company F under Lieutenant Patrick A. Connolly, and Company I under Lieutenant William H. Mullay. “Upon approaching the north bank of the Zapote River, we noticed a large enemy force strongly entrenched on the opposite bank. A wooden bridge crossing the river had been partially burned. I sent for reinforcements, and our warships in the bay were given coordinates for naval support. “A Marine artillery battery was brought ashore from the fleet and moved up to the smoldering bridge. By this time, more of our troops had arrived, and a

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concentrated rifle and artillery attack forced the Filipinos to abandon their forward position. A company of the Fourteenth Infantry swam the river and occupied the enemy’s riverbank trenches. A second line of defenses, however, prevented any further advance. Under the protection of Admiral Dewey’s fleet, a company of Marines was landed behind the insurgent lines. The Marines were joined by detachments of the Ninth and Twelfth Infantry Regiments that crossed the river on a sandbar some distance downstream. “In the meantime, engineers of the Twenty-first Infantry rapidly repaired the bridge, and Company L led the regiment’s dash across the rickety span. The Filipinos were soon driven from their last line of trenches and fled into the jungle. They were vigorously pursued until sundown. However, most of them escaped to a line of defenses around the village of Imus—about five miles inland. Our regiment’s casualties in the attack were ten men killed and forty wounded.” Early the next morning General Lawton’s Division entered Bacoor unopposed. Admiral Dewey’s fleet had bombarded the town, and the civilians fled into the hills. As the people began returning to their battered homes, the roads were jammed with refugees carrying their possessions and driving their livestock ahead of them. The Americans shared their rations with the Filipinos and distributed rice to the people. On June 18, Wheaton’s brigade was ordered to Imus. No enemy troops were encountered, and the city was found to be deserted. A battalion of Fourth Infantry was sent out to reconnoiter the countryside south of the town. The battalion had only advanced about a mile when it ran into a deadly ambush. The sound of heavy gunfire was heard in Imus. Wheaton hurriedly rushed two battalions and an artillery battery to the scene, but the enemy disappeared into the woods before the reinforcements arrived. Lieutenant Donovan chronicled the Twenty-first Regiment’s operations after the Zapote River battle. “At the end of June, two of our battalions were sent to occupy part of the American line between the waterworks and Caloocan. The rainy season was in full force, and the trenches took on the appearance of medieval moats, with the men standing in knee-deep water. “On 16 July, Companies C, D, F, H, I and K were sent by boat to Morong, located on the north shore of Laguna de Bay. Landing at Morong was difficult. The nearby river had overflowed its banks, and troops had to wade from one place to another. Soldiers on duty at most outposts were in water up to their hips. The battle of man against nature was now in earnest. “We lived a miserable existance for five months. Patrol after patrol continually searched the dripping jungle and rugged hills. Enemy bands were hunted, harried and scattered. At the same time, however, our casualties from disease grew in such proportions as to make heavy combat losses seem unimportant. “Outnumbered at all times, under the perpetual strain of battle, unable to move in any direction without ceaseless vigilance against jungle traps and ambush, the soldiers of the Twenty-first Regiment staggered zombielike through their

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duties. Fully 80 percent of the men suffered dengue and malarial fevers, neuralgia and various muscular and joint ailments. Our decimated regiment was finally relieved in late December and reassigned to the south line of defenses between San Pedro Macati and Pasay.” General Wheaton praised the regiment with the following remarks: “One of the most distinguished regiments of the United States Army, the arduous service performed by the Twenty-first U.S. Infantry, while under my command in the Philippine Islands, is worthy of the highest commendation. The long list of officers and men killed and wounded while serving in the island of Luzon is proof of the gallant conduct of the regiment in many combats.”

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The Abra Valley Campaign: The Diary of Lewis E. Cozzens In the autumn of 1899 an attempt was made to bring the Philippine War to a swift conclusion. General Elwell Otis planned a three-pronged offensive to crush Aguinaldo’s army. Two separate columns, under Generals Lawton and MacArthur, would pursue the insurgents north toward Dagupan. A third force, commanded by General Wheaton, would be transported by sea and landed at San Fabian on the Lingayen Gulf. Wheaton would then move south to link up with the other columns, trapping Aguinaldo and his troops. On November 6 Wheaton, commanding the Thirteenth U.S. Infantry and the Thirty-third U.S. Volunteer Infantry Regiments, embarked aboard naval transports. They rendezvoused with Admiral Dewey’s gunboats in the Lingayen Gulf. After a short naval bombardment the soldiers went ashore at San Fabian. Responding to this new American threat, Aguinaldo sent the Tinio Brigade to keep open his army’s path of retreat. Wheaton ordered patrols out to locate the main body of enemy troops, but the Filipinos were elusive. The overly cautious Wheaton waited until November 11 before advancing. He sent the Thirty-third Regiment, commanded by Colonel Luther Hare, to scout ahead. The regiment had only proceeded six miles to San Jacinto when it was ambushed by a Filipino battalion under Major Pablo Bustamante. A vicious battle raged for a few hours under the hot sun. The fight was not decided until Colonel Hare brought up a Gatling gun. The hard-pressed enemy fled into the woods, leaving 134 of their number dead on the battlefield. The American casualties were seven dead and fourteen wounded. Instead of heading for Dagupan, however, Wheaton kept most of his force at San Fabian and sent Major Peyton March and a battalion of the Thirty-third Infantry in pursuit of the insurgents fleeing north toward Abra Province. On December 2, sixty soldiers of Aguinaldo’s bodyguard detail, commanded

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by General Gregorio del Pilar, made a heroic rear guard stand at the Tirad Pass. Although greatly outnumbered, they sacrificed their lives to hold off the American troops long enough for Aguinaldo to safely escape. After the fierce battle Peyton March declared that the U.S. Army had cleared most of northern Luzon of the enemy and had driven Emilio Aguinaldo and the Tinio Brigade into the mountains as “fugitives without command.”

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But the Tinio Brigade was still a viable force. It turned from conventional warfare to guerrilla tactics. Manuel Tinio divided his soldiers into small bands of from twenty to thirty men each. The detachments acted independently, except when several units would join together for a mass attack against the Americans. Much of the enemy’s guerrilla activity was concentrated in the Abra Province. The district was mountainous, and the main route to the interior was by way of the Abra River. The guerrilla force in this area was under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Juan Villamor and was composed of two companies of fifty men each plus a local militia. On November 27, a battalion of U.S. Marines landed at Pandan and swiftly advanced to Vigan without opposition. A few days later troops of the Thirtythird Infantry relieved the marines. At dawn on December 4, Villamor launched an unsuccessful attack on Vigan that was repulsed with heavy casualties to the Filipinos. The following day Colonel Hare, with two battalions of the Thirty-third Infantry, proceeded to San Quintin and then on to Pidigan. The rapid advance by the Americans caused the insurgents to abandon large quantities of rice, ammunition, and rifles. Hare swiftly moved into Bangued, capital of Abra Province. Stiff resistance was expected, but the enemy soldiers had fled north. Although the Americans had captured Bangued, Juan Villamor’s troops controlled the towns and villages in the hills surrounding the city. The Filipinos constantly fired bullets into the American camp and cut telegraph wires between Bangued and Vigan. On December 20, General Elwell Otis placed General Samuel B. M. Young in charge of a newly created District of Northern Luzon and headquartered at Bangued. Under Young’s command were the Thirty-third Volunteer Infantry, a battalion each of the Thirty-fourth and Twenty-ninth Volunteer Infantry, and the Third U.S. Cavalry. Meanwhile, the native villages in the foothills of the nearby mountains protected the guerrillas and supplied them with food and shelter. Like bees defending their hive, the Filipinos kept the Americans so busy that attempts to go after Aguinaldo were delayed. In early September 1900, General Young requested additional troops, claiming that the war in his sector was getting out of hand. His patrols and enemy detachments had clashed in several sharp engagements. Supply rafts traveling the Abra River were continually attacked, and efforts to clear the riverbanks of Villamor’s soldiers had been unsuccessful. Young commented that the guerrillas often wore civilian clothing under their uniforms and stated that it was discouraging to chase the enemy into the jungle only to come upon a group of farmers working in the fields. In his diary Private Lewis E. Cozzens, Company B, Thirty-third U.S. Volunteer Infantry, described his regiment’s activities in the Abra Valley from September 1900 to March 1901. In the handwritten pages Cozzens reported on the boredom of garrison duty, the dangers of daily patrols, and brutal expeditions into the mountains to hunt down the elusive guerrillas.

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September 4, 1900 Company B, commanded by Captain Charles Van Way, Company D and a detachment of Company C were called out at 3 A.M. All able-bodied men drew one day’s rations and left camp an hour later. We were itching to get into a fight and were not disappointed. Our patrol was ambushed by at least a hundred insurgents. We traded gunfire for about an hour, then charged—scattering the enemy in all directions. One man from C Company was wounded. Some of the boys from B Company had holes shot through their haversacks and hats. While on the hike our bugler, John Chapman, had remarked that he would enjoy standing up in the face of the enemy and sounding a charge. He got his chance but did not appreciate Mauser bullets zipping past his ears. After the battle, Captain Van Way took a couple of squads across the river to San Gregorio and burned the village. The residents had been sending money and recruits to the insurgents. September 6 We returned to camp at 4 A.M. yesterday. Two-thirds of the men are on sick report with sore feet. I was healthy—so was put on kitchen police duty. Our battalion was paid this afternoon. I drew $31.20 and deposited $30.00. We are paid once a month. The boys are drinking and gambling pretty heavy. A number of fights took place and there was some shooting on the post all evening. So ended a typical payday. September 7 Our battalion and the regimental band formed at 11 A.M. We hiked to Tayum and marched around the plaza to the school building. The band would be furnishing music for raising the Stars and Stripes over the native school. The flag was donated by the Grand Army of the Republic of New York. We stood at present arms while the flag was being hoisted. After the impressive ceremony, a box of hardtack was distributed to the children. The youngsters cheered, waved American flags and shouted, “Viva Americanos!” The people put on a fabulous feast for us—a welcome change from rice and canned meat. The band played all day, and the musicians got pretty tanked up before we had to return to camp. September 13 Two days ago, Lieutenant Jeffers and a detachment of C Company went out on a short daylight patrol. They had not returned by sundown, and a cavalry troop was sent out to look for them. Jeffers finally showed up at 11 P.M. He had become separated from his men while trying to cross the swift Abra River on a couple of rafts. The rafts capsized, and the men had narrow escapes from death. A few boys were washed a couple of hundred yards downriver before they managed to swim to the riverbank. Others grabbed tree branches and held on until they were rescued. September 15 This morning, while on patrol, Company L, Thirty-third Infantry, and a troop of Third Cavalry were ambushed near Alfonso XII. Two of our men were killed and fourteen wounded. The enemy left twenty dead on the field. About thirty wounded Filipinos were

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captured along with their rifles and ammunition. A hundred natives came in today and registered at battalion headquarters. They pledged allegiance to the United States government. September 17 Yesterday, Companies A, C, D and K, Thirty-third Infantry, left for Alfonso XII. About dark, a number of their wounded began straggling back to camp—some walking, and others carried on stretchers. They had encountered a strong enemy force dug in on a high hill near the town. Our men surrounded the position and sent for reinforcements. September 18 Heavy rain, thunder and lightning all night. Colonel Hare and a cavalry troop left camp before daybreak for Alfonso XII. It was cloudy and misty all day. I was sick with cramps and remained in barracks. Mail arrived by raft from Vigan. I got five letters. September 19 Hare and the mounted detachment came in this morning—followed by Companies A and C. The enemy’s breastworks on the hill were too strong and could not be taken. Company B was called out with two day’s rations and sixty extra rounds of ammunition. We reached Alfonso XII at 8 P.M. and joined Companies D and K. With Captain Van Way in command, we plodded through heavy rain and rice paddies and camped within sight of the hill. September 20 On the march again before daybreak, and surrounded the enemy position. At 2 P.M., Company E and a cavalry troop arrived from San Quintin. Company B was ordered to return to Alfonso XII, where we were joined by Company D. I was on outpost duty all night. September 21 Foggy morning. Coffee for breakfast. By 10 A.M. the hot sun was beating down. We waited for a couple of mountain guns to be brought up. Colonel Hare arrived about noon with the mountain gun battery. Major Thomas Ashburn was in command of the artillery. Companies A and C were ordered to flank the hill. The mountain guns went into action at 2:15 P.M. Pow! Pow! Shots right on target. After firing thirty salvos, Captain Van Way and B Company charged up the hill. With shot and shell screaming over our heads, we drove the insurgents from their entrenchments and tore down the barricades. The Filipinos made a stand on another hill to our right. Captain Coffee led a platoon of B Company up the slope and scattered the enemy. We were an exhausted group of soldiers when we shuffled into Bangued at 9 P.M. But, just when we thought we could get some rest, Call to Arms was sounded. The insurgents were firing into the city again.

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October 4 Coffee, rice and hardtack for breakfast. A detail was sent to Vigan. It was attacked near San Quintin. Paul Jenkins was killed, and Eugene Todd was wounded and captured. Robert L. Harris was missing and believed captured. Captain Van Way led a detachment to try and find Todd and Harris. October 6 A small riot broke out in the guardhouse last night, and about fifty native prisoners escaped. A detail arrived from Vigan this morning with rations. They also found Harris. He had been wounded and laid in the thick brush for two days without food or water. Harris said that the Filipinos and Todd passed within a few feet of him. Todd had been shot in the leg and was helped along by his captors. The insurgents also carried ten of their own wounded. Right on schedule, at 11 P.M., the enemy opened fire on Bangued from the east and north. Outposts No. 1 and No. 2 came under heavy attack. Orville Mills was wounded in the gun fight. During the night, while our attention was diverted by this latest assault, the Filipinos tore down all the telegraph wires between Bangued and Pidigan. October 8 Spent the last two days repairing telegraph lines in the rain, then on kitchen police with a temperature of 102 degrees. October 14 On orderly duty. Weather cold and windy. Filipino prisoners broke out of the guardhouse tonight and set fire to one building. Extra guards were put on. One of our men was accidently shot. October 15 We are doomed! Juan Villamor—the insurgent leader of the Abra Province—sent word with a courier that he was going to take Bangued tonight. Guard doubled, and Call to Arms at 11 P.M. The only loss was a loss of sleep. October 19 Last night—between Call to Quarters and Taps—the fire alarm was sounded. All troops fell out and guard posts strengthened. But somehow the enemy sneaked into town and burned many buildings. No drill today as everyone is worn out from being up all night fighting fires. October 20 More guards posted. Two officers put under arrest. Battalion confined to quarters. Taps at 7:30 P.M. Muster check taken three times. Somethings up. Nobody’s talking.

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October 25 Telegraph wires cut again last night. Patrols sent out to repair the lines. One detachment under Lieutenant George Febiger—consisting of forty men of Company H, Thirtythird Infantry—and Troop L, Third U.S. Cavalry, commanded by Lieutenant Grayson Heidt, were ambushed by a large enemy force near Narvacan. Greatly outnumbered, our casualties were heavy. Lieutenant Febiger, Charles Lindenberg, William Wilson, Andrew Johnson, Guy McClintock and Samuel Davis were killed. The wounded included Floyd McPherson, John Gray, Floyd Heard, Henry Johnson, Adam Wachs, Alfred Downer, Charles Martin, Oscar Bradford, and William Hunter. John Boyd and Fred Schwed are listed as missing. The insurgents also made off with twenty-nine horses belonging to the cavalry troop. October 26 Pow! Pow! The insurgents opened fire on Bangued about midnight. At daybreak, our company was sent out on a hike. We ran into an enemy force near Alfonso XII. The Filipinos were driven into the jungle with unknown casualties. On our side, however, Vincent Burgstaller was killed. Thomas Tucker and Thomas Davis were wounded. While we were gone, a raft going downriver to Vigan was attacked and captured by the enemy. Lieutenant Bowjucs and several men on the raft managed to escape. Bowjucs lost a trunk containing all his clothes and a couple of thousand dollars in cash. The soldiers scattered in all directions and straggled back to camp about noon. November 1 The American flag, near outpost No. 2, was stolen by the insurgents during the night. Five cavalry horses were shot near outpost No. 1. The telegraph line was cut again between here and Pidigan. Boots and Saddles sounded. A mounted detachment was sent out to repair the wire. After breakfast this morning—one hardtack and coffee—a delegation from Company B reported to Captain Van Way that the men were hungry and were not getting enough to eat. November 2 This afternoon, Captain Van Way and Company A were sent out on patrol. About 7 we received word that they had been ambushed near Cosucos. A cavalry troop left camp at 9 P.M. to bring in the casualties. They returned about midnight. Captain Van Way had been shot in the chest, just above the heart, and in his right hand. Five other men were also wounded—Albium Andrews, John Clark, Peter Schomers, William Nickle and William Miller. About an hour later, Sergeant Morris led a platoon of B Company to attack a village near San Quintin. The enemy had been using the barrio as a base from which to attack our patrols. The surprise raid was successful. A number of huts were burned, and a large amount of Mauser ammunition was confiscated. P.M.,

November 3 Our company was called out at 4 A.M. All able-bodied men were ordered to fall in for a hike. We advanced along the south bank of the Abra River. Just below Pidigan,

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suspicious movements were observed in the woods along the opposite bank. A couple of squads were directed to open fire. A couple of enemy soldiers fell at the first volley— the others scattered. After proceeding another mile, a detachment was sent back to get some rafts to carry us across the river. While waiting for the rafts to arrive, we were all joshing around and smoking, when suddenly we came under heavy fire from bushes and rocks on the other side of the river. We quickly answered the attack and drove the enemy from their positions. The rafts soon arrived, and our company safely crossed the river. We secured the riverbank and met several rafts coming upstream. They were carrying members of the newly arrived Fifth U.S. Infantry Regiment. We returned to Bangued before dark. November 5 Heavy fog early this morning, but clear after breakfast. Rafts arrived at noon from Vigan bringing more Fifth Infantry troops. Some of the men from our battalion held a mock election today for president of the United States. Company A cast twenty-three votes for William McKinley and thirteen for William Jennings Bryan. Company B gave fourteen votes to McKinley and twenty-four to Bryan. Company C cast sixteen votes for McKinley and four for Bryan. Company D awarded twenty-six votes to McKinley and fourteen to Bryan. McKinley won the hard-fought election with seventy-nine votes to Bryan’s fifty-five. November 8 Cloudy all day. The insurgents took out about 500 yards of telegraph line between Bangued and Pidigan. A mounted detachment was sent out to repair the damage. After stringing more wire, they set fire to all the houses along the line. Received three telegrams from home stating that McKinley was elected by an overwhelming margin. The Bryan followers have been busy paying off their election bets. Several poor losers ended up in the guardhouse. Company C, Fifth U.S. Infantry, arrived from Vigan. They had forty rafts with them—all packed with supplies and rations. Practically everyone was up all night unloading the stores. Most of the bacon was spoiled. November 10 The rice fields are turning a golden brown color. One platoon of the Thirty-third Infantry, under Sergeant Keller, was sent out to burn another village that had been aiding the insurgents. This strategy of the powers-that-be has not helped our cause any. It has only made our life out here more dangerous. The Fifth Infantry Band came up from Vigan yesterday. They brought more rafts loaded with provisions. We were up all night again unloading the rafts. An extra guard was put on the commissary. Band concert at 4 P.M. A few men from our battalion supplied violin and guitar music. November 15 The paymaster arrived last night—escorted by a mountain gun battery. We were paid after lunch. The boys are living high on the hog. Card games and craps. Same old winners. Same old losers. Band concert at 4 P.M.

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November 22 Weather dry and hot. John Low, Company G, died of pneumonia last night. Rafts were sent downriver this morning with the very sick and outgoing mail. Company B formed at 11 A.M. for vaccination shots. The regimental pack train and General Samuel Young arrived at noon. Detachments have been coming and going both day and night. Rumors are flying around that an important expedition will be leaving from here soon. November 26 A mounted detachment escorted General Young and his staff to the river. They will take rafts to Vigan. A lot of activity in the camp. Early this morning, Company D, Fifth Infantry, and a pack train headed north on a secret mission. A battalion of the Thirtysixth Infantry followed about an hour later. They were to join up at Tayum. Late this afternoon, 200 native bolomen surrendered to Captain John F. Green, commanding the Thirty-third Infantry scouts. November 29 Thanksgiving Day! Bacon, hardtack and coffee for breakfast. The holiday dinner was a feast—oyster stew, beans, hardtack and coffee. Captain Green and his scouts returned from a hike. They ran into an enemy force near Pidigan—killing several insurgents and recapturing the cavalry horses that the Filipinos had grabbed a month earlier. November 30 Weather hot, dry and sultry. Monthly inspection of troops today. I was complimented on my rifle by the inspector general. The Thirty-sixth Infantry pack train came in this morning to pick up more rations. The Fifth Infantry pack train left for Dolores. Companies A and B, Thirty-third Infantry, were called out to receive new shoes. This is always an ominous sign. It usually means that a long march is in the offing. Band concert at 4 P.M. December 3 Yesterday a detachment of the Thirty-sixth Infantry was ambushed near Pilar. Cornelius Leahy was killed. The wounded included Sam Roberts, Ulric Jusseaume, Frank Hilliker, Courtney Morris, Charles Clark, John Kertz, and Albert Padesky. One of the enemy soldiers spoke excellent English. He called out to the Americans that they were surrounded and had better surrender. Our men opened fire in the direction of the voice— followed by a frantic scream, “Oh, my God! I’m shot!” The insurgents fled, leaving their dead in the brush. December 7 Rafts arrived from Vigan with rations. More spoiled bacon. Company D, Thirty-third Infantry, left this morning with a pack train. Company F of the Thirty-third had a skirmish with the enemy near Pidigan. Seven insurgents were killed and eight surrendered.

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December 10 I was on orderly duty yesterday for Colonel Richard Comba—commander of the Fifth Infantry Regiment. A detachment of the Thirty-sixth Infantry came into camp today. A few hours earlier they had fought off an enemy attack and remarked that plenty of blood was found along the insurgent lines. Cold rain and windy all day. Band concert at 4 P.M. December 15 Quartermaster sergeants are busy issuing twelve day’s rations. We will be hiking into the mountains tomorrow on a scouting expedition. A group of friendly natives are already in town to carry the supplies. My name was not on the marching list, but I volunteered to go. The expedition—commanded by Colonel Peyton March—consisted of sixty men of the Thirty-third Infantry, thirty men from the Thirty-sixth Infantry, thirty men of the Fifth Infantry and a mounted detachment. We left Bangued at 1 P.M. and camped for the night at Bucay. December 16 Up before sunrise and on the march again. We crossed a range of hills and reached Abas about 9 A.M. Stopped a half hour to rest and had breakfast—coconuts, hardtack and coffee—then resumed the hike. We stopped before dark at Daldalao, a village on the Bucloc River. December 17 A quick breakfast at 5 A.M.—hardtack and coffee—then on our way. We spent most of the morning struggling up to the top of a high, rugged mountain. The scenery was fantastic. From here, I could see the mountain range beyond Bangued. We continued to follow the river and camped for the night at the foot of Mount Balutictic. Coconuts for dinner again. Very cold night. December 18 On the march before sunrise. Reached Mount Ticmo after a two-hour hike. Started our uphill climb. The mountainside was covered with tall, black pine trees. It was a tough ascent—several men fell out from exhaustion. We camped for a quick dinner near the summit. From here I could see the ocean and the entire Abra Valley. On the move again, the scenery changing from pines to hardwood trees covered with moss. We arrived at the summit—above the clouds—at 2 P.M. Then down the mountain—down, down, down—slipping and sliding on the rocky ground. It was almost dark by the time we reached the pine tree line. We had to use pine torches to find our way. Some pack ponies were lost when they fell over a cliff. It was almost 2 A.M. before our column finally reached the foot of the mountain where we camped for the night. December 19 Up at 7 A.M., everyone moaning and groaning with aches and pains. Coconuts for breakfast. Advanced along the old Spanish military trail for a few miles until we reached Balbalasang. The rice field dikes in this region of the country are built of stone. From

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here we followed the Saltan River canyon to Talalang. Rested and stopped for dinner— coffee and hardtack. Traveled through the canyon for most of the day. Passed by many orange groves and stopped at a small village about sundown.

December 20 On the march at daybreak. Continued down the canyon. Crossed several streams. One was so swift that we had to lock arms and cross in columns of four. In some places, we crossed the fast moving water hand over hand on ropes that were stretched from one bank to the other. We soon came to a spot where magnificent waterfalls could be seen on both sides of the canyon. We rested here for a half hour. The air was so cold that everyone was shivering. We had a number of sick men on our hands by now and were forced to carry a few of them. We stopped for dinner at Pantikian. The village is on the side of a mountain. This is a beautiful place—many stone dikes and fields of flowers. We climbed the steep mountain slope for quite some distance, passed through more clouds, then headed down. Rain suddenly began falling. The trail quickly became a quagmire of thick, sticky mud. Movement was difficult. This was the hardest day’s travel so far. More supply ponies fell over a cliff. It soon became dark, and pine torches were lit. The companies protecting the pack train had a lot of trouble moving the carts and ponies through the rain and mud. Our column sloshed into Salegseg about 8 P.M. We stopped here for the night. The pack train camped on the mountain slope.

December 21 Lieutenant Goddard, the mounted detachment, and all the sick men started back to Bangued this morning. The rest of us headed up another mountain slope and into parts unknown. We climbed uphill all morning and ate dinner at the summit. Going down was a struggle—a steep slope and thick jungle. Half the time we crawled on our hands and knees, which were cut and bleeding from grabbing the sharp grasses to keep from falling. We camped for the night at the foot of the mountain.

December 22 On the march at sunrise. Crossed a river the first thing. This is our second day in the jungle. Climbed up and down a small mountain and reached Limos at noon. The village was deserted. We are now in the land of the headhunters. Above us, on the cliffs, we can see the natives waving their battle-axes, spears and bolos. A few brave souls, wearing bamboo earrings, ventured down to check us out. Because of exhaustion and sickness, we camped here for the night.

December 23 Today is Sunday. No breakfast—out of hardtack and coffee. Waded a small stream. Reached a deserted village where we found some unshucked rice. We spent the day pounding it and also killed one of our pack carabaos for meat. Hated to do it, but we were starving.

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December 24 Christmas Eve. Up at dawn. Hunger and sickness running rampant. Another mountain to climb. A cold rain soaked us to the skin. Our poor pack animals were slipping and falling in the mud. Once across the mountain, the Thirty-third and Thirty-sixth Infantry men camped for the night. The Fifth Infantry soldiers continued on to Salegseg. I hung up my stockings to dry, but candy and presents were the last thing on my mind. I only hoped the socks dried before morning. December 25 Christmas Day. Pouring rain. We plodded through mud for about an hour. Joined the Fifth Infantry at Salegseg. Climbed another mountain. Passed through the jungle and into the tall pines. Camped at Talalang. The men are worn out—many sick with fever. December 26 Up at 4:30 A.M. Filled our canteens at the Saltan River and began climbing Balbalasang Mountain. Stopped to eat our ration of rice at the summit—then down along the pine ridge. We reached the foot of the mountain at 3:30 P.M. The men are all giving out. Oh God, for a new pair of legs. When we reached the river again, the feverish troops washed their hot faces in the cold water. Some of the men stripped off their clothes and plunged into the river. A few soldiers—mad with fever—refused to leave the cool water. We left them there and moved on. They were instructed to catch up with us later. December 27 Spent the day crossing one stream after another. Arrived at Bucay at 5 P.M. Camped for the night in a native village. Samuel Sprouse, Thirty-sixth Infantry, died in his sleep. December 28 On the march at 7 A.M. Stopped for dinner at Quimpal. Learned that Lieutenant Goddard and his caravan of sick soldiers passed through the village a couple of days ago. One of the very ill men—Sergeant Michael J. O’Brien, Thirty-third Infantry—died at Quimpal. Just as we resumed the hike, it started to rain. Walking was difficult. There was no talking or joking in the ranks. Most of us had worn out the soles of our new shoes. Some of the men were barefooted. We reached Tayum late in the afternoon. A regimental band played as we entered the town. After a half hour rest, we were on our way again—splashing through mud and slush. It was 7 P.M. by the time we shuffled into Bangued. The pack train column came in about midnight. January 1, 1901 New Year’s Day. Some of the boys went into town last night and rang the old year out and the new year in. They had a grand time—too grand in fact—they ended the evening in the guardhouse. I was on kitchen police duty today. A number of sick men came in from Bucay and Tayum. A detail arrived from Vigan with rations and mail. I received three letters.

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January 5 On orderly duty for Colonel March today. About forty sick men were sent to the hospital at Vigan. They will probably be leaving for the States soon. The Thirty-sixth Infantry pack train left for Alfonso XII with rations. They will be returning with more sick. This is the last scribbling I will be doing with this old fountain pen. I sold it for eight dollars Mexican. From now on, I will be writing with a pencil. January 6 Today is Sunday. A number of natives attended church. They are slowly returning to Bangued as we rebuild their destroyed homes. A Fifth Infantry detachment came in last night. They were attacked by an enemy force that had taken refuge in a small village. The insurgents were driven off and the huts burned. Rafts loaded with rations arrived from Vigan. A Thirty-sixth Infantry patrol brought in forty-one prisoners. January 7 Awakened this morning by the musicians playing the payday march. The paymaster arrived from Vigan late last night. I was detailed to be his orderly. But, instead of paying us, he hurried off to pay the troops stationed at Alfonso XII. January 9 The paymaster returned to Bangued. Payday at last! Crap and poker games running high. A few card sharks were caught cheating and thrown in the guardhouse—mainly to protect their lives. More mail arrived from the States—also some new recruits for the Fifth Infantry. The paymaster left this evening for Bucay, Dolores and Tayum. January 12 Within the past few days about a hundred bolomen have come into camp and given themselves up. They wanted to sign the oath of allegiance, but not one of them could write their own name. The reason that they are surrendering is because they can’t make a move without bumping into one of our patrols. The Thirty-sixth Infantry boys have been busy today turning in their rations. They have been ordered to return to Manila at once. While in town this afternoon, I had my picture taken on a carabao and a pony. January 20 Left yesterday with a detail to Santa. Guarded rafts and ninety-two prisoners. The sun was scorching hot. I had to walk my post in the hot sand. January 23 Returned to Bangued last night. Companies A and B, Thirty-third Infantry, and a detachment of Fifth Infantry drew two day’s rations and twenty extra rounds of ammunition. We are to leave on patrol tomorrow. An additional three day’s rations will accompany us on a pack train.

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January 24 A cavalry troop escorted us for five miles. Companies A and B then fanned out and rejoined at La Paz. We camped for the night at Dolores. January 25 Up early and headed for Bucay. Waded streams all the way and arrived at 11 A.M. During the afternoon, we were joined by the Fifth Infantry detachment and returned to Bangued. February 2 A Fifth Infantry pack train was ambushed near Tayum. A runner was sent to Bangued for reinforcements. Company B, Thirty-third Infantry, and a Fifth Infantry company hurried to the scene. By the time we arrived, however, the shooting had stopped, but a bloody landscape greeted our eyes. The soldiers had been butchered and the horses and supplies carried off. Among the dead were Assistant Surgeon Charles Ross, Fred Moncrief, John Campbell, Charles Fleming, Elwood Warner, and William Heaps. Three men were seriously wounded—Thomas Feeney, Martin Bergen and Sim Eubanks. A detail was sent back to Bangued with the dead and wounded. The rest of us were ordered to hunt down the ambushers. February 3 We marched all night—stopping only at Bucay for a quick meal of rice and coffee. We learned from informants that the insurgent group responsible for the massacre had fled toward Alfonso XII. We immediately followed and captured about two dozen enemy soldiers near the town. February 4 Ate a hurried breakfast of rice and returned to Bangued at 11 A.M. Our prisoners were put aboard rafts and sent downriver to Vigan for interrogation. After this forced march, my body was so sore that I could hardly move. Twenty men of the Fifth Infantry went into town, intending to exact revenge on the local Filipinos. They were thrown in the guardhouse for being drunk and disorderly. February 10 A Fifth Infantry detachment left early this morning with a pack train bound for Bucay. They ran into more trouble on the Bucay road. The enemy staged another ambush. Edward Lusk was shot through the heart, and several other men were wounded. The insurgents were chased into the woods. Five Filipino soldiers were killed and thirty captured. Throughout the day, many natives voluntarily came into camp and took the oath of allegiance to the United States and kissed the cross and bible. Company A, Thirtythird Infantry, left Bangued on rafts bound for Vigan. William Weithorn fell overboard and drowned. Our company formed at 4 P.M. for the burial of a soldier who accidently shot himself.

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February 14 Today is Valentine’s Day. Practically everyone in Company B is sick. I have been ill for three days with chills and fever. I should have been put in the malaria ward, but it was full. Walter Cooley died this morning and was buried in the afternoon. Food is scarce. Only one meal today—hardtack and coffee. February 15 This morning, a number of sick—including myself—were put on rafts to go downriver. The Fifth Infantry band gave us a musical send-off. We landed near Vigan and were sent to the Camp Logan hospital. The Thirty-third Infantry is scheduled to go home about the end of the month. A couple of companies are already in town. February 18 Was given permission to go into Vigan today. Had a good time seeing a friend at Company I. Returned to camp in time for retreat. The Third Cavalry band furnished music. A couple of Red Cross ladies visited the hospital this evening. February 20 Early this morning, Companies B, G, and H, Thirty-third Infantry, embarked aboard an army transport. Besides our battalion, the ship carried companies of the Thirty-fourth Infantry and a few hundred prisoners. We arrived at Manila about dark, then disembarked and went into camp. February 22 Today is George Washington’s birthday. I went into Manila to see the celebration. The city was decorated with flags and flowers. I watched a thrilling street parade with marching bands and cheered by hundreds of Filipinos wearing red, white and blue colors. A sense of excitement was everywhere. I made my way through the crowds to the old section of the city where I visited a church and went to a Spanish theatre. February 26 The Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth U.S. Volunteer Infantry Regiments were reviewed by Generals MacArthur, Young and Wheaton. General MacArthur gave a stirring speech praising the regiments for their bravery and accomplishments. Many of the boys requesting discharge plan to remain in the Philippines and go into business. Others intend to get rich panning for gold. February 28 Turned in rifles and other government property. Our uniforms and personal belongings were disinfected. We were then marched to the pier and climbed aboard barges for a short ride to a waiting transport.

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March 1 After laying in quarantine for twenty-four hours, we hoisted anchor at 4 P.M. and headed out to sea. Homeward bound!

26

The Capture of Emilio Aguinaldo In February 1901 Cecilio Segismundo, a messenger for Emilio Aguinaldo, was captured by an American patrol. In the messenger’s possession was a letter from Aguinaldo asking that 400 men be sent to him at his headquarters at Palanan. Major W. C. Brown was on Funston’s staff when the letter was delivered to the general. In an article in the Boston Herald, dated March 28, 1901, Brown wrote: “Some months previously, General Funston had captured the camp of the insurgent general Lacuna. Also seized was Lacuna’s seal and official signed correspondence. From this material, two letters were forged—supposedly from Lacuna to Aguinaldo. One letter contained information as to the progress of the war. The other stated that pursuant to orders, Lacuna was sending a company of his best troops to Palanan. “As soon as his plans were approved, General Funston organized an expedition to capture Aguinaldo and hopefully put an end to the bitter conflict. On March 5, Funston went aboard the gunboat, USS Vicksburg and met with its skipper, Commander Edward B. Barry. A short conference was held, then Funston returned to shore.” In his report of the mission to Rear Admiral George C. Remey, dated March 28, 1901, Commander Barry related the part played by his ship in the apprehension of Emilio Aguinaldo: “In obedience to your orders, I anchored off Manila on the afternoon of 5 March. On the afternoon of the 6th, General Frederick Funston and his party came aboard the Vicksburg. Funston’s detachment consisted of Captain Russell F. Hazzard and his brother Lieutenant Oliver P. M. Hazzard of the Eleventh U.S. Cavalry; Captain Harry W. Newton, Thirtyfourth Infantry; Lieutenant Burton J. Mitchell, Fortieth Infantry; and 85 Macabebe scouts. Twenty scouts wore insurgent uniforms, while the others were

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dressed as Filipino laborers. The uniform worn by the Americans consisted of khaki trousers and plain blue shirts without any insignia of rank.” Also embarking aboard the Vicksburg—but not officially assigned to the expedition—were Major W. C. Brown, Captain H. C. Hodges and Assistant Surgeon W. E. McPherson. Major Brown stated: “Attached to the Macabebe scouts were four ex-insurgent officers and a Spaniard—Lazaro Segovia. Before the war, Segovia had been a sergeant in the Spanish army, but then joined Aguinaldo’s forces. He later surrendered to the Americans and became a valuable addition to General Funston’s staff. “With the exception of Captain Barry, none of the Vicksburg’s crew were aware of our mission. The objective was not to be announced until we were well out to sea in order to prevent any opportunities for communication with the shore.” Commander Barry continued his report: “We got underway at 7:50 P.M. and passed through the San Bernardino Strait about noon on 8 March. All the coastlines had been erroneously charted, but we experienced little difficulty in navigating the passage. At the request of General Funston, we anchored at Atimonan where necessary supplies were procured for the scouts. “Underway again at 6 A.M., 11 March, and anchored at Polillo Island at 11:06 A.M. Upon approaching the town of Polillo, we went to general quarters and made all preparations to resist any attack. An armed boat was sent ahead to sound the bay, but we experienced no difficulty in the approach. However, the location of the town on our chart of the port is wrong. “General Funston went ashore with an armed detachment. He found the natives generally good natured. Many white flags were flying on the buildings, but it was evident that most of the people had fled into the hills. While at Polillo, Funston bought four long dugout canoes. They were taken to the ship and towed astern by a four-inch hawser. “At daybreak on 12 March we got underway for Casiguran, but soon ran into a severe storm. The sea quickly became violent. I slowed the ship until we were barely moving. It was my intention to reach Casiguran Bay that night, but it was impossible to do so. We also lost three of the canoes which would make it difficult to land the expedition. “The Vicksburg anchored in Casiguran Bay at 11:30 P.M. on 13 March. All lights were screened. The landing force was disembarked in two sections. The first group left the ship at 1 A.M. on the 14th, and the entire expedition was landed within an hour. We left the bay about 2:30 A.M. and by daylight were out of sight of land. I circled to the eastward, then southward, and anchored in Baler Bay at 12:15 P.M. “Baler consists of little else than the huts occupied by our garrison. At present, the stone church is used as a storehouse. While at Baler, we located the grave of the four men killed in the capture of the Gillmore party. I put up a marker, with a suitable inscription, to mark the spot. As yet, there has been no trace of

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Venville. A search was made for him, and a reward was offered for information as to his fate.” Major Brown remarked: “During our stay at Baler—in order to prevent any possibility of the Vicksburg’s real mission being known—no communications between ship and shore was permitted except by officers. The fact that Hodges and I had been sent to Baler for special duty was accepted by the Filipinos as sufficient reason for the presence of the gunboat.”

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The Vicksburg stayed at Baler for a few days, while hints were dropped that she would be returning to Manila. Commander Barry narrated: “Early on the morning of 18 March, we sailed from Baler and anchored in Casiguran Bay at 4 P.M. Puffs of smoke were observed, evidently signaling our arrival. I took a whaleboat and cutter and—accompanied by Major Brown and an armed crew— headed up a narrow river leading to the town. With difficulty, we crossed a sandbar and rowed a winding course for about three miles. We soon came upon several huts and a suspension bridge. All the houses seemed abandoned. I saw only one man, but he fled into the woods as soon as I called out to him. By this time it was becoming dark, and we were forced to return to the ship. “Early the following morning, several natives in a canoe—and waving a white shirt on a pole—came alongside the Vicksburg. We also hoisted a white flag, and I told them that we intended to go ashore, but meant no harm to the people. Then, taking a gig and crew—Major Brown, Captain Hodges and myself— headed toward the beach. Many of the natives fled at our approach. Moments after we landed, Major Brown and I went forward unarmed. We managed to convince a few natives that we were friendly and gave them some hardtack and tobacco. We then returned to the ship. “That afternoon, several townspeople came aboard the Vicksburg, and we gave them food and tobacco. One of the natives agreed to act as our guide. I took two boats and sixteen men, including Major Brown, Captain Hodges and Naval Cadet Bricker. Our guide directed us to land near a well-traveled trail, and after walking a couple of miles we arrived at Casiguran. The town comprised about a hundred dwellings—built in the usual way with rectangular streets. There was also a stone church with an attached residence for priests, both in dilapidated condition. The homes appeared deserted—populated only by dogs, pigs and chickens. While exploring the town, I noticed extensive rice fields and gardens. We saw three men, but they fled when we approached. Every means was used to attract someone—including waving white flags—but to no avail. We returned to the boats and headed back to the Vicksburg. “In the meantime, confidence seemed to be spreading throughout the bay, as native fishermen resumed their daily routine. The people began to feel safe at our presence and several requested permission to come aboard. Before long, we were carrying on a busy barter business, trading clothing and tobacco for chickens, pigs and fruit. “We got underway again at 3:30 P.M. on 24 March, and stopped at the spot where we dropped off General Funston’s expedition. I took a boat ashore and searched for signs of their presence. I saw a few burned out fires, but they could have been made by anyone. “At daylight the following morning, we sailed for Palanan Bay. Owing to the uncertainty of our maps of northeast Luzon, I carefully examined the island’s coastline for about twenty miles. Then, having located the bay—to my satisfaction—I waited until dark before steaming toward the entrance. At 12:58 P.M.—

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when about ten miles from the upper end of the bay—I saw a column of smoke!” Major Brown described the excitement: “About 1 A.M., Commander Barry rushed to my cabin and hurriedly remarked that smoke—evidently a signal— could be seen on the beach. I immediately rushed to the bridge and tried to locate the source of the smoke through my binoculars. At first, I could not see anything. But suddenly, I noticed a small patch of white on the beach. A moment later it moved. I yelled to Barry that I saw a signal. Then a lookout made out a wigwagged message and shouted, ‘We have him!’ “Wild cheering quickly erupted throughout the ship. The rapid relief of tension can be well imagined. We finally realized that an early cessation of hostilities could now be possible.” Commander Barry stated: “We slowly moved in close to shore. I did not anchor, but kept the ship in position—bow pointing seaward. At 2:30 P.M., I sent two cutters and a whaleboat to the beach. I followed in the gig. A heavy surf was pounding, but we managed to safely land the boats. General Funston ran forward to greet us. In addition to his group, the party consisted of Emilio Aguinaldo and three members of his staff—Simeon Villa, Santiago Barcelona and Benjamin Ligero.” Major Brown recalled the return of Funston’s men with their prisoners to the Vicksburg: “The first boat to reach the ship brought Emilio Aguinaldo, guarded by Lieutenant Mitchell. As senior officer aboard, I hurried to the head of the gangway to greet the distinguished Filipino leader. Captain Hodges was on hand with his camera and snapped a picture of Aguinaldo as he came aboard. At this juncture, the pent-up feelings of the crew gave way to robust cheers, undoubtedly contributing to the gentleman’s discomfort, as he appeared to be startled. He may have had visions of joining fifty or more of his subordinates now in exile at Guam—a fate that the average Filipino seemed to fear more than death itself. “While embarking from shore, Aguinaldo became soaking wet from the high swells and sea spray. Paymaster Rogers gave him dry clothes, and he was informed that his family was now at Manila, and he would be joining them soon. “At supper that evening, Aguinaldo laid aside his knife and fork and expressed his appreciation for the courteous treatment he had received from his captors. We arrived back at Manila shortly after midnight on March 28. At 6 A.M., Aguinaldo—escorted by General Funston and Lieutenant Mitchell—left the Vicksburg and proceeded to General MacArthur’s headquarters.” In an interview published in the Boston Herald, dated March 28, 1901, Funston related his account of the capture of Emilio Aguinaldo. “At 2 A.M. on March 14, the Vicksburg landed our detachment about twenty-five miles south of Casiguran. The town had never been garrisoned by American troops, and the inhabitants were strongly insurgent sympathizers. When we entered the city, Lazaro Segovia, supposedly commanding the party, informed the town’s mayor that his company had surprised an American surveying crew—killing several

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men and capturing five. He then exhibited the Americans as his prisoners. Segovia was very convincing—especially when he gave the mayor the two fake letters for delivery to Aguinaldo. “We [Americans] were thrown in the local jail and kept imprisoned for three days. On the morning of March 17—taking a small quantity of cooked corn with us—our expedition started out on the journey to Palanan. The countryside was rugged and uninhabited. For seven days and nights we waded swift rivers, struggled up and down steep hills, and slashed through dense jungle. “I halted our detachment about eight miles from Palanan. The men were too exhausted and hungry to go much farther. Although sick himself, Segovia pushed ahead the last several miles to the city. Help was quickly forthcoming. Aguinaldo immediately dispatched food and other supplies and gave instructions that the Americans should be treated with kindness.” The following morning Funston’s scouts—escorting the American prisoners— continued their march to Palanan. Funston, with a dozen Macabebes, stayed a short distance behind. At the outskirts of the town the column was met by members of Aguinaldo’s staff. Segovia and Hilario Placidio, an ex-insurgent officer, went ahead to greet Aguinaldo. Meanwhile, the bodyguard troops— about fifty men wearing straw hats and dressed in their neat blue and white uniforms—lined up to greet the newcomers. As Segovia and Placidio entered Aguinaldo’s house, the rest of their group casually surrounded the building. In the August 1901 issue of Everybody’s Magazine, Emilio Aguinaldo described the rapid series of events that led up to his capture: “About two o’clock on the afternoon of March 23, 1901, a large contingent of natives—escorting a few alleged American captives—arrived at Palanan. They halted at the plaza in front of my residence, where the soldiers of my guard lined up to receive them. “Segovia and Placidio requested permission to see me and were allowed to enter the house. After the usual salutations, I asked them about their journey. Segovia replied that the march had been exceedingly difficult with very little rest during the month-long trip. Segovia also stated that at one time he had been the Spanish governor’s adjutant and had met me at Manila. However, I had no recollection of ever having seen him before. “After a short conversation, I gave orders for the newly arrived men to be shown to quarters that had been prepared for them. Segovia immediately left the house and hurried to the plaza where his group was waiting. Suddenly, he began shouting orders. I could not hear distinctly what he was saying, but his men started shooting. Not suspecting any plot against myself, I thought it was a salute with blank cartridges. Having this in mind, I ran to the window and cried out several times, ‘Cease firing! Cease firing!’ But the shooting continued, and live bullets began striking the house. “Quickly realizing that the newcomers were enemies, I turned away from the window and hunted for some means of escape. There was none. Segovia’s men had encircled the building. I grabbed a revolver, intending to fight to the end. But Santiago Barcelona threw his arms around me, crying out, ‘Don’t sacrifice

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yourself! The country needs you alive!’ Knowing that he was right, I set the gun down. In the meantime, Simeon Villa had run from the house—intending to rally our men—but he was shot and taken prisoner. “As soon as the shooting started, Placidio dropped to the floor to avoid the bullets. He stood up after the firing subsided and advised us that we were captives of the Americans. He also said that 400 U.S. Navy sailors would arrive soon. Moments later, Segovia’s troops rushed into the house shouting, ‘Hurrah for the Macabebes!’ Behind them were five well-armed Americans. I was quickly identified and ordered into a room along with Barcelona and Villa. Guards were posted at all the windows and doors. The Americans then rummaged through the house for whatever papers and documents they might find. While the search was going on, Barcelona bandaged Villa’s wounds—fortunately they were not serious. “It is difficult to give a detailed account of what occurred in the plaza during the attack. My soldiers were taken completely by surprise—many did not even have their rifles loaded. One man was killed and two others injured. The rest of the guard fled, but whether there were any wounded among them, I do not know. “The following morning, I conferred with General Funston. He told me that an American warship would arrive shortly to take me to Manila. I would like to state, that at all times—at Palanan and aboard the Vicksburg—my staff and I were treated with the highest respect by our captors, as well as by all the other American officers with whom we came in contact. “On March 28, the Vicksburg anchored at Manila Bay. I was escorted ashore by Funston, and delivered to General MacArthur as a prisoner of war.”

27

“Stand Gentlemen— He Served on Samar!” The wedge-shaped island of Samar measures 156 miles from north to south and is 75 miles wide at its broadest point. The mountainous jungle terrain is home to snakes, scorpions, leeches, and malaria-carrying mosquitoes. The weather is hot and humid, with daily rainstorms and strong winds. The native population— consisting of a hybrid mixture of Moro, Chinese, Spanish, and Filipino—was fiercely independent. Shortly after the Spanish surrender at Manila, General Vicente Lucban arrived at Samar and declared himself governor of the island under the authority of Emilio Aguinaldo’s new Philippine Republic. By the time American occupation troops landed on Samar, Lucban had ruled the island for more than a year. As the U.S. army established garrisons in towns along the coast, Lucban and his followers retreated into the jungle to carry out a guerrilla war against the Americans. In July 1901 Pedro Abayan, the mayor of Balangiga—a city on the south coast of Samar—requested American troops to protect his town from attacks by marauding natives. At this time General Adna Chaffee was in command of U.S. Army forces in the Philippines. He divided the archipelago into separate districts. Samar was placed in the Department of the Visayas under General Robert P. Hughes. On August 11, the army transport Liscum steamed into the harbor at Balangiga and disembarked Company C, Ninth U.S. Infantry. The seventy-two-man company was under the command of Captain Thomas W. Connell. Part of Company C was barracked on the second floor of the town’s city hall. Two squads, under the command of Sergeants Frank Betron and George F. Markley, were stationed in a couple of huts on the plaza across from the city hall. The mess tents—with wood-burning stoves—were set up on platforms behind

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the municipal building. Sergeant Betron’s squad, however, had its own mess table beneath their hut, which was on stilts about seven feet above the ground. For the next six weeks the men of Company C led a boring existance, trying to survive in a tropical rain forest; subsisting on hardtack, bacon, and coffee; and suffering from dysentery and malaria. Then on Sunday morning, the 28th of September, the dull routine exploded in a flash of knives and gunfire that swiftly became known as the Balangiga massacre. In an article appearing in the Boston Herald, U.S. Navy Lieutenant F. P.

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Allison described the tragic incident: “When Company C, Ninth Infantry, arrived in Samar, Captain Connell was treated cordially and his vigilance was not as strict as it would have been otherwise. The day before the enemy attack, the town mayor appeared at company headquarters and said to Captain Connell that he had about a hundred laborers available to clean up the plaza. The mayor was told to bring any native willing to work and clear away the underbrush. “Just before daybreak on September 28, about eighty natives, carrying bolo knives, strolled into camp—supposedly to clear away the brush. At about the same time, the American soldiers were ambling into the mess tents for breakfast. “Company C had only three armed sentries on duty. The last native entering the plaza approached one of the guards—Private Adolph Gamlin. Grabbing the soldier’s rifle, he brought the butt down hard on Gamlin’s skull—then fired a shot in the air as a signal. All hell exploded. Church bells began ringing crazily. Shouting natives—led by the treacherous mayor—rushed the Americans. The enemy force split in two sections. One group busted into the city hall. The others swarmed through the mess tents, slaughtering the unarmed soldiers. The stunned Americans grabbed any weapon they could find—knives, chairs, pots and pans—but they were quickly overwhelmed by the force of numbers “Captain Connell had been asleep in his quarters on the second floor of the city hall, when he was suddenly awakened by the noise. A moment later the attackers charged into his room. Connell jumped from the nearest window, but was immediately cut down as he hit the ground. “Not satisfied with just killing Captain Connell, the natives hacked his body into pieces. They cut off his head, covered it with paper and wood, then set it afire. One native bit off a finger to get Connell’s West Point ring. “Sergeant Frank Betron managed to grab a rifle. He shot the mayor. Then, along with six other armed soldiers, fought his way into the city hall. Despite mad rushes by the savages that surrounded them, the American’s were able to secure the post colors. Betron and his men then shot their way to the beach where a small group of soldiers were defending several of their wounded comrades. The Americans gathered five outrigger canoes. Twenty-four men—including eleven wounded—climbed into the boats and headed for Basey about twenty-five miles up the coast.” Upon reaching Basey the Balangiga survivors related their story of the slaughter to Captain Edwin C. Bookmiller, commanding Company G, Ninth Infantry. Early the following day Captain Bookmiller and fifty-three volunteers boarded the U.S. Navy gunboat Pittsburgh and steamed at top speed to Balangiga. In a cable to the adjutant-general, later published in the Boston Herald, Bookmiller reported what he found. “Landed yesterday at Balangiga. The town was deserted. Buried the identified bodies of three officers and twenty-nine men in a mass grave. The bodies of approximately 200 natives were piled in a stack and burned. All rations had been either carried off or destroyed. The insurgents also fled with fifty-seven rifles and about 28,000 rounds of ammunition. We torched the town and returned to Basey.”

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The American public was horrified when news of the massacre reached the United States. In a special dispatch to the Boston Herald, dated September 30, 1901, a news reporter wrote: “To the American officers familiar with the conditions on Samar, the mass killing was not altogether a surprise. General Lucban—the leader of the revolt in Samar—is the cruelest of the insurgent commanders. It is believed that Lucban was in Cebu attempting to arouse the natives and stir up an outbreak. If he was in Cebu, he would be well informed as to the movements of the Americans and would have definitely known the strength of the Ninth Infantry garrison at Balangiga. “The soldiers of Company C were received by the natives with a great show of friendship, and this was thought to have lulled them into a false sense of security.” General MacArthur commented on the tragedy in an interview published in the Boston Herald. “He [Lucban] is a tricky and slippery fellow and has caused no end of trouble in the islands. He evidently took the Ninth Infantry company unawares, or else our losses would not have been so heavy. It was pure slaughter—our men did not have a chance to fight for their lives. This massacre at Samar will not aid the cause of the Filipinos, but will only make American forces more determined than ever to be victorious.” In an article printed in the Springfield Republican, Corporal William J. Gibbs—a survivor of the Balangiga attack—criticized Captain Connell’s treatment of the local natives and how it may have contributed to the deadly attack on the Company C garrison. “Captain Connell was under instructions to do everything possible to gain the trust of the local population. He quickly became friendly with the town officials and the priests of the church. “We had only been at Balangiga a week when Connell decided to clear away the underbrush that was clogging the streets and give the village a semblance of civilization. However, he soon ran into difficulty in getting the natives to do any work. The weather was hot and humid. The men would work energetically for a couple of days and then disappear. The only other way to get the job done was by forced labor, and Captain Connell proceeded to do just that—thereby reducing ninety native workers to practical slavery. Those who complained were placed in confinement and under guard. “The natives were not allowed to return to their homes at night, but were kept in two conical tents—each of which was originally intended to accommodate only sixteen people. Their wives were obligated to bring them their meals, and none of the comforts of home were provided. “The American soldiers were outspoken in their disapproval of this treatment, but the captain was the authority and his orders were to be obeyed. The native workers soon became very sullen and morose. This oppressive practice conveyed the impression that the Americans were a heartless people, and it was no wonder that they rebelled.” After the Balangiga massacre other raids on Ninth Infantry posts quickly followed. On October 16, a forty-six man patrol of Company E was ambushed

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by about a hundred bolomen. The next day the Weyler garrison was attacked. But this time the natives were using the rifles taken in the Balangiga raid. When this latest information reached Washington, General Chaffee was ordered to “Take appropriate action to quell new insurgent uprisings on Samar.” Chaffee immediately formed a Sixth Separate Brigade to be commanded by General Jacob H. Smith. The brigade would be quartered at Tacloban, Leyte, across the San Juanico Strait from Basey. Lacking enough soldiers to form a full brigade, Chaffee requested the U.S. Navy to furnish a marine unit for temporary duty with the army. On October 21, a marine battalion—commanded by Major Littleton W. T. Waller—was ordered to Samar. The following day Waller’s battalion of 315 men embarked at Cavite aboard the USS New York. The ship anchored at Catbalogan, Samar, the next morning. About noon General Smith came aboard the New York and conferred with Major Waller. Smith defined the mission and area of operations for Waller’s battalion. The marines would cover the territory from Basey on the west coast to Hernani on the east and the region south of that line. Smith was also quoted as saying to Waller, “I want no prisoners. I wish you to kill and burn. The more you kill and burn, the better you please me. I want all persons killed who are capable of bearing arms in actual hostilities against the United States.” Waller divided his battalion into two sections. One group would go to Balangiga, while the other would remain at Basey. Patrols would be conducted from both towns. On November 17, the marines carried out a three-pronged attack against Gemeral Lucban’s headquarters at Sojoton. One column, led by Major Waller, traveled by river. The other columns—under the command of Captains David Porter and Hiram Bearss—forged their way overland through the jungle. The enemy base—a fortified position atop 200-foot-high cliffs—seemed impregnable. But, using bamboo ladders, the marines managed to scale the sheer bluffs and chase the insurgents from their breastworks. The Americans then exploded the enemy’s ammunition, destroyed their rice supplies, and burned dozens of houses. The victorious attack on Sojoton seemed to have ended insurgent resistance on Samar. But one problem still bothered General Smith—the lack of communications between the Ninth Infantry’s isolated garrisons. Smith ordered Waller to run telegraph wires from Basey to Balangiga and scout the possibility of another wire from Lanang to Basey. On December 8, Waller’s marines left Basey and for the next few weeks patrolled out of Balangiga. The day after Christmas—taking fifty marines— Waller advanced along the shoreline to Lanang, arriving on the 27th. Waller planned to travel down the Lanang River as far as possible, then march overland to Basey. Captain Pickering, Company K, U.S. First Infantry—commanding the Lanang garrison—tried to talk Major Waller out of making the journey. Pickering stated

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that the terrain was rugged—covered with thick jungle, deep ravines, steep hills, and fast-flowing rivers. Lieutenant Kenneth Williams of Company K had just returned from a twelveday patrol searching for a rumored trail leading to Sojoton where an American supply base had been established. He informed Waller that he found no trace of the path and did not believe it existed. Williams also told the marine major that the jungle was too dense to run a telegraph line. But Waller figured that the trip would only be a six-day march at the most. He asked Pickering for rations for a party of fifty marines and thirty-three native carriers. Because he was short of food for the garrison, however, Pickering was only able to give Waller enough hardtack and bacon to last four days. The following morning the marines and carriers—plus two native guides named Slim and Smoke—climbed into several longboats and started down the Lanang River. The expedition made seventeen miles the first day. But, after traveling eight miles the second day, they were forced to abandon the river because of dangerous rapids. The boats were sent back to Lanang, and Waller’s party began its torturous trek west. Suddenly the weather—which had been clear—turned cloudy. Strong winds and torrential rain quickly turned the jungle into a swamp. As the soakingwet men hacked their way through thick underbrush, sharp thorns ripped clothing and flesh. Tenacious mud, thick as quicksand, made each step a struggle. The exhausted marines halted their march at dark, but because of the continuous rain, it was impossible to light a fire to dry their clothing. Rations were cut. On December 31, Waller’s expedition reached the summit of a mountain range and made its way down the steep slope. The marines followed a compass course of west southwest, believing that this would take them to the Sojoton River. But instead they came to the Suribao River, which flowed east. By this time the rigorous journey was having a telling effect on the men— sickness, irritability, and trance-like behavior. After discussing the next move with his officers, Waller decided to build rafts and return to Lanang. The wood was waterlogged, however, and would not float. Waller’s next plan was to take Lieutenants Frank Halford, DeWitt Lyles, and thirteen of the healthiest men and head for Sojoton. From there he would send a relief party back for the others. Waller would mark the trail so that the rest of the marines—under Captain David Porter—could follow. In the early afternoon of January 3, 1902, Waller and his group came upon a clearing where a native garden had been planted with bananas, coconut palms, and sweet potatoes. A few minutes later the sun poked through the clouds, and the marines made a fire using the lens of a field glass. The half-starved marines ate their fill. Then, after a short rest, resumed the march. They soon came upon a small hut and captured five natives. Two of the captives stated that they knew the route to Basey and agreed to act as guides. About this time two of Captain Porter’s men arrived with a message from

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the captain requesting permission for his detachment to return to Lanang. Waller sent a native named Victor back with a note telling Porter to try and reach the garden clearing where his group could find food. On the afternoon of January 5, Waller’s column reached the Sojoton River, but the water was running too fast to attempt a crossing. As the marine officers discussed their options, Victor rushed up. The out-of-breath native gasped that he could not find Porter’s party because of enemy patrols searching for the Americans. That night Waller wrapped himself in a blanket with his bolo knife close at hand. He tried to sleep, but a pouring rain kept him awake. Suddenly, in the pitch blackness, he felt a hand carefully slipping the bolo out from under the blanket. Waller noticed a shadowy figure next to him. He quickly grabbed his revolver and jammed the muzzle against the stranger’s head. The intruder turned out to be Victor. The native was put under guard and marked down for punishment later. Waller’s party reached the Cadacan River the next day. They soon sighted a navy cutter heading downriver. The marines shouted and waved their arms. The boat crew quickly noticed the ragged Americans. They ran their craft up on the riverbank and rescued the weary marine detail. Upon arrival at Basey Victor was put in jail and Major Waller reported to General Smith at Tacloban. Waller expressed his concern regarding the whereabouts of Captain Porter’s men and sent out a relief detachment under Lieutenant John H. A. Day to find the missing marines. The rescue party searched the steaming jungle for a week without success and returned to Basey on January 15. Meanwhile, Porter—having never received Waller’s message to try and reach the native garden—decided to return to Lanang. He took the six healthiest marines and six carriers for the difficult journey. The rest of the men—commanded by Lieutenant Alexander Williams—were told to follow at their own speed and look for Porter to return with help. However, by the time Porter arrived at the Lanang River, four of the marines were too weak to continue the journey. They were told to remain near the river and wait to be rescued. Porter reached the Lanang garrison on January 11. But, because of torrential rains, a relief force of Company K, First U.S. Infantry, was unable to leave until the 14th. They found the four marines the following day. And, on the 18th, discovered Lieutenant Williams and thirty-three members of his group. Williams had been attacked by a bolo-swinging native and was struck several times by the sharp blade of the knife. Williams stated that five of his men had died on the march, and five others simply disappeared. The surviving marines were in a pitiful, half-starved condition. But the relief party noted that the native carriers seemed to be well-fed and in excellent health. Upon their return to Lanang twenty-four of the rescued marines and ten native carriers were taken aboard the gunboat USS Arayat. The natives were imme-

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diately arrested and put in irons below decks. The gunboat sailed from Lanang that evening and anchored at Tacloban the next morning. The marine survivors—several near death—were carried on stretchers to the hospital where they were interviewed by the American press. A story in the Boston Herald, dated January 29, 1902, described the terror and suffering of their ordeal. “The condition of Captain David D. Porter’s marines—who took part in the expedition into the jungles of Samar—is much worse than previously described. They suffered fearful hardships and were without food for several days. The natives—who accompanied the marines—told the Americans that they were unable to distinguish edible roots, but the marines did not believe them. The marines suffered so acutely from hunger that they ate the flesh of two dogs raw. As you can imagine, the anger seething against the natives is intense.” Adding to the feeding-frenzy was Lieutenant Williams’ story of the tragedy that was published in the same issue of the Herald. “It’s a wonder that any of us managed to come out alive. During all the time we were in the jungle, the natives were living on various roots and berries that they found but never shared with us. My men became so weak that they could not walk, but had to crawl through the mud on their hands and knees. It took us seventeen days to cover the ground we should have made in two days. Our native guides constantly harassed us. I did not dare attempt to discipline them for fear they would murder us all. “The day before our rescue, several of the natives wandered off. I went to look for them and found the group relaxing beneath a bush. They were in an ugly mood. I called for them to come out and cut some firewood. One of the men jumped to his feet and rushed at me swinging his bolo. I drew my revolver to scare him. He dropped the knife, then grabbed my pistol arm, and sank his teeth into my other hand. I screamed for help. My men—resting about fifty yards away—dragged themselves to my assistance. Meanwhile, another native stabbed me nine times in the face and chest. One wound was near the heart. My life was saved when his knife glanced off a rib. “The natives quickly fled into the jungle, but some of them returned later and said that the others were waiting for an opportunity to butcher us. When we were rescued, the natives who stayed with us suddenly decided to be friendly. They gave my men berries and potatoes that they had hid from us when we were starving.” The appalling sight of the feeble, emaciated marines as they were being carried from the Arayat angered the men watching the pathetic procession. Tempers and emotions were running high. Several officers approached Major Waller and recommended that the treacherous natives be shot. Waller, suffering from a high fever, gave in to their demands. On the morning of January 20, Lieutenant John H. A. Day, commanding a firing squad, marched nine natives to the town plaza where they were put to

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death. One native had been executed the day before, and another would be shot later in the day on the 20th. Among those executed were Slim and Victor. In a telegram to General Jacob Smith, Waller reported the executions, stating: “It became necessary to expend eleven prisoners—ten who were implicated in the attack on Lieutenant Williams, and one who plotted against me.” As soon as General Chaffee was notified of the incident, he hurried to Tacloban to investigate the killings, and ordered Waller’s brigade to proceed to Cavite. Upon arrival Waller was surprised to learn that Chaffee had preferred charges against him for the murder of eleven natives of the Philippine Islands without conducting a trial. A general court-martial was convened in Manila on March 21, 1902. In his defense Waller cited Article 82 of General Order 100, which stated: “No conventional restriction of the modes adopted to injure the enemy is any longer admitted.” This phrase was interpreted to mean that modern modes of warfare are not narrowed down by treaty that were at one time observed. Waller construed the clause to mean that captured enemy guerrillas “are not entitled to the privileges accorded prisoners of war, but shall be treated summarily as robbers and pirates.” Originally General Order 100 was instituted in the early days of the Civil War, when many of the Union army volunteer regiments were officered by political appointees rather than professional soldiers. These untrained unit commanders were continually required to make vital decisions regarding the conduct of their troops in various situations. Conficts of interest often occurred when more than one commander was involved in the same field of operations. In order to remedy the situation President Abraham Lincoln asked the distinguished jurist Francis Lieber to formulate a list of rules for the management of military forces. An editorial published in the Boston Herald on March 10, 1902, described the problems that confronted Lieber forty years earlier and the controversial result of his research: “Dr. Francis Lieber is not only a lawyer and scholar, but also a man of military experience. As a lad of fifteen, he had fought against Napoleon. He was almost killed on the field at Waterloo and was one of the Prussian refugees of 1848. “His familiarity with the conduct of armies was therefore with the French and Germans—and largely during the period when Napoleonic treaties with other countries were still in force. However, during this time in history, there were none of the devilish devices for adding to the horrors of war such as we now possess. “The statement—‘No conventional restriction of the modes adopted to injure the enemy is any longer admitted’—simply means that the modern modes of warfare are not narrowed down by treaty lines that were once observed. “If, as expected, some of the officers charged with the violation of the rules of civilized warfare, fall back upon their limited understanding of General Order

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100, they will find themselves without sympathy from their superiors and will have to answer for not obeying the order intelligently and in its real meaning.” Major Waller also argued that because he had never been detached from the marines, the army had no jurisdiction over him. The court, however, denied his claim and proceeded with the trial. General Smith was called as a witness for the defense but denied that he ever told Waller to “kill and burn.” Smith also stated that he had never mentioned General Order 100 to Waller. Major Waller’s court-martial lasted eighteen days. After deliberating about a half hour, the court voted eleven to two for acquittal. General Smith was not as lucky. On April 21, he was brought to trial on the charge of “conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline.” Smith was found guilty and sentenced to be admonished. The light scolding angered President Theodore Roosevelt, and in a statement to the press he remarked: “I am well aware of the danger and great difficulty of the task our army has had in the Philippine Islands. And of the intolerable provocations it has received from the cruelty, treachery and total disregard of the rules of civilized warfare on the part of its enemy. “I also heartily approve the employment of the sternest measures necessary to put a stop to such atrocities and to bring this war to a close. It would be culpable to show weakness in dealing with such foes—or to fail to use all legitimate and honorable methods to overcome them. “However, the very fact that warfare is of such character as to afford infinite provocation for the commission of acts of cruelty by junior officers and enlisted men must make the officers in responsible positions particularly careful in their bearing and conduct so as to keep a moral check over any improper acts by their subordinates. In most cases, the higher ranking officers have conducted themselves in a manner so as to supply this necessary control, but there have been exceptions. “In the recent campaign ordered by General Jacob Smith, the shooting of the native bearers by the order of Major Waller was an act which sullied the American name. It is impossible to tell exactly how much influence the language used by General Smith may have had in affecting the decisions of the officers under his command. Loose and inciting remarks by a high ranking officer can always provoke wrongdoing among those of his subordinates whose wills are weak or whose passions are strong. “General Smith has had a long career of distinguished service to his country. Taken in full, his work has been such as to reflect credit upon the United States Army and the nation. It is deeply regretted that he acted in this manner as to interfere with his further usefulness to the army. I hereby direct that he be retired from the active list.” Although he was exonerated of all charges, Major Waller was sternly criticized in American newspapers and was continually forced to defend himself against all kinds of accusations. In a speech given in Philadelphia on April 30,

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1903, Waller stated: “In the district of Samar where I held sway, the natives called me ‘Father.’ The one atrocity that I committed on the island was the execution of eleven thieves who tried to kill my men—and who did kill some of them. “It might be interesting for you to know that the natives under my charge were the ones who informed me of the plot. I caught the culprits—tried them at a drumhead court-martial [a summary court-martial that tries offenses on the battlefield]—and ordered them shot. The punishment met with the approval of the other natives—as they suffered more from Lucban’s guerrillas than they did from my men. As to those claims made by the press that I shot women and children—they are false. They are vicious lies!” The Samar incident left an indelible mark on the U.S. Marine Corps. For many years after the tragedy, whenever a veteran of Samar entered a room, the ranking officer present would rise and announce, “Stand Gentlemen—he served on Samar!”

28

Life and Death in Moroland The Moros are Moslem descendants of the dyaks of Borneo. For hundreds of years they fought off every attempt to conquer their lands. The wildest and most ferocious of all the Moro tribes were those inhabiting the island of Mindanao and living along the shores of Lake Lanao. In 1639 Pedro de Almonte, the Spanish governor of Zamboanga, was ordered to form an expedition to subjugate the Moros of Lake Lanao. He assembled a thousand-man regiment under the joint command of Francisco Atienza and a priest, Agustı´n de San Pedro. The expeditionary force landed on the north coast of Mindanao. In addition to ammunition, food, and supplies, the party also carried six disassembled boats that could be easily put together. The Spaniards arrived at the lake on April 4. They quickly reassembled the boats and circled the lake. Atienza received the “token” surrender of the regional chiefs and a pledge of allegiance to Spain. Later in the year another expedition journeyed along the shore of the lake from south to north and reached the north coast at Iligan. After receiving the reports of both trips, Almonte sent Captain Bermudez de Castro with 500 men to Lake Lanao to build a fort. By this time, however, the Spaniards had worn out their welcome. The natives had had enough of the Spanish interfering in their lives and attempting to collect taxes. The Moro chiefs—forgetting ancient feuds—banded together to drive the Europeans from the lake. From the very beginning of its construction, the fort was besieged and attacked. The Spaniards soon realized that the fortress could not be maintained against the hordes of Moros who were bent on its destruction. Castro and his troops demolished what they had already built and retreated to Iligan.

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Mindanao and the Islands of the Sulu Archipelago

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Zamboanga remained the seat of Spanish authority in Mindanao for the next 240 years, but the Spaniards never sent another expedition to the lake. Tax collectors—who were occasionally ordered into the area—never returned. During the early 1880s Moro vintas—or longboats—regularly raided Manila Bay and the west coast of Luzon. In addition to plundering, the Moro tribesmen carried away women and children—selling their captives into slavery. In an attempt to stop these piratical attacks, the Spanish government persuaded Christian Filipinos to establish colonies at certain locations along the north coast of Mindanao. This plan—in conjunction with a naval patrol—was only partly successful. The Moros now began to raid the new settlements—especially Iligan, about twenty-five miles north of Lake Lanao. Then, in 1894, Spanish Governor General Ramon Blanco put together an expedition to crush the Moro revolt. As part of the plan contracts were let in Hong Kong for the construction of two steel-hull gunboats. They were to be shipped in sections to Iligan—loaded on carts—and transported overland to the lake where the ships would be reassembled at Marahui. According to specifications, the gunboats would be ninety-two-feet long with a fifteen-foot beam and a draft of six-feet. They would have a top speed of twelve knots, and be armed with a 42-mm rapid-fire gun on the bow, two 11mm machine guns amidships, and a 25-mm gun at the stern. Meanwhile, Blanco’s troops landed at Iligan and arrived at Marahui in March 1895. Fortifications were built and a broad, unobstructed road was cut through the jungle to transport the ship components to the lake. Two English engineers and a hundred Chinese workmen were sent from Hong Kong to put the sections together. A few months later Blanco ordered two smaller gunboats and three iron barges. Each of the flat-bottom craft were sixty-feet long, twenty-five-feet wide, and could carry about a hundred soldiers. The Spaniards launched the first gunboat in August and the second vessel in September. On October 16, the ships carried out their first mission—a reconnaissance along the south shore of the lake. For the next three months the Spanish force attacked the Moros by land and water. Numerous native strongholds were destroyed, and Moro activity on Lake Lanao came to a virtual standstill. The arrival of the two smaller gunboats and troop-carrying barges gave the Spaniards such a preponderance of fire power that they had little trouble from the natives for a few years. After America’s victory over Spain the Spanish commander at Marahui received orders for the post to be abandoned and for his garrison to proceed to Zamboanga for transportation back to Spain. Determined not to leave anything salvageable for the Americans, the Spaniards worked feverishly to destroy anything of value. All stores, supplies, and machine tools were loaded on the barges. Weapons were removed from the gunboats, and coal reserves were packed into the ship bunkers. Then, in early November, one of the gunboats—towing the other three ships and the barges—headed for the deepest part of the lake, and

Life and Death in Moroland 28.2

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The Lake Lanao District of Mindanao

Spain’s “Lake Lanao Fleet” was scuttled. According to a Moro eyewitness a small boat, carrying six men, returned to shore and put the deserted outpost to the torch. Except for the occupation of Zamboanga, American activity on Mindanao was at a standstill. Events in the northern islands required all available troops. Meanwhile, the Moros, no longer under the thumb of the Spaniards, again began to raid the Filipino settlements along the north coast of Mindanao. In 1902 the Twenty-eighth U.S. Infantry Regiment, commanded by Major

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Robert L. Bullard, landed at Iligan. They rebuilt the old Spanish trail to the lake and widened the roadway to accommodate army wagons. Captain Robert Hamilton described the culture of the Lake Lanao natives: “The Moro custom of leadership is a complicated structure of religious and political feudalism. The Sultan of Jolo is the acknowledged leader. Under him are a multitude of lesser sultans—each only as powerful as his riches and number of wives. On the next level are the datus, likewise as important as their wealth and women. Beneath the datus are the free Moros—and lastly, the sacopes or slaves. “There are no towns or cities around the lake. Each community is protected by a type of fort called a cotta. A typical cotta is about ten feet high and constructed of earth, rock, bamboo and rattan vines. The entire fort is surrounded by ditches. Within the cotta are huts made of bamboo and thatch for the ruler, his wives and followers. “The cottas are defended by several lantacas—small brass or bronze cannons from one- to three-inch caliber and loaded with scrap metal or stones. These guns originally came from captured Spanish ships as pirate loot or were salvaged from wrecks. Weak gunpowder, however, gave the lantacas a short range. “The Moro warriors carry rifles—ranging from flintlocks to Mausers and Krags. In addition to his rifle, each tribesman is armed with a kris [a long sword with a wavy double-edged blade], a spear, bolo knife, and one or more daggers. “In a fight, the Moros always aim to cut or sever the tendons and muscles of the body, thus leaving their victims to suffer intense agony. Some of the spears are attached to eight-foot lengths of bamboo poles that, in the hands of either male or female fanatics, can be thrown with bull’s-eye accuracy for distances up to sixty feet. “The Moro is a frenzied fighting machine—far more blood-thirsty, cruel and treacherous than our Apache Indians. If he dies in battle, the Moro warrior is assured of a seat in heaven. And every enemy he kills will become his slave in paradise.” The first confrontation between the American soldiers and the Lake Lanao natives occurred in early March 1902, when a group of Moros from Bayang attacked a cavalry detachment and killed a trooper. This incident—plus the stealing of supplies, horses, and cattle—increased the tension between the army and the lake Moros. Then, a couple of weeks later, two soldiers were ambushed and slaughtered. Upon hearing of the incident General Adna Chaffee sent a message to the datus of the region demanding that they turn over the murderers and make restitution for stolen government property. The datus refused and dared the Americans to come after them. Chaffee decided to use force instead of diplomacy and directed Colonel Frank Baldwin, Twenty-seventh U.S. Infantry Regiment, to mobilize an expedition to pacify the Moros. Baldwin’s force of three infantry battalions and an artillery battery marched

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unopposed from Malabang to the lake. An ultimatum was delivered to the Binidayan cotta for the datus to give up the killers of the American soldiers within twenty-four hours or suffer the consequences. Once again the datus refused and defiantly fired their lantacas at the American lines. Captain George A. Hunt described the Twenty-seventh Infantry’s attack on the Moro defenses: “About noon, Major Walter S. Scott, commanding the Second Battalion, was ordered to move out toward the Binidayan fort, about two miles distant. The column had advanced about a half mile when it was halted to allow artillery to go into action. After firing several rounds into the cotta, Companies F and H moved forward through tall grass and weeds. The Moros began shooting at us, but without effect. Bayonets were fixed. Charge was sounded, and our troops—shouting Indian war whoops—rushed across the enemy trenches and burst into the fort. “The capture of the cotta was complete by two o’clock. Colonel Baldwin soon arrived with additional artillery and infantry reserves. An attack was immediately ordered on the Pandapatan fort—about a thousand yards from Binidayan. A valley ran between the two cottas and the approach to Pandapatan was up a steep slope. “After a few salvos by our mountain guns, Company G advanced as a line of skirmishers until the enemy trenches came into view. Company F then deployed to the left of Company G, and Company E followed in support. The fort was soon surrounded on three sides. Company B then joined the line on the right of Company G—sealing the cordon around the cotta. “The companies closed in until they reached the foot of the ramparts, but the walls were too high to scale. Men were hurriedly put to work building ladders. In the meantime night closed in. Firing ceased as a miserable rain began to fall. “The ground on all sides of the fort was spotted with many grass-covered pits with sharp bamboo stakes projecting from the bottom. These hazardous traps had been difficult to avoid in the daylight. Therefore, in the blackness of night, the troops were ordered to remain in one place rather than move about. “The night seemed endlessly long. Within the fort, there was a constant yelling, pounding of gongs, and beating of drums. Sporadic gunfire erupted, but the shooting by the Americans was primarily to impress upon the Moros that we were on the alert. Occassionally there were attempts to flee the fort, but several natives were killed, and only a few managed to effect their escape. “Shortly before dawn, the Moros began cutting away the bamboo screen that covered the parapet, and we prepared to meet a possible bolo rush. Instead, however, four white flags were seen floating from the walls of the cotta. “About 6 A.M., we cautiously entered the fort. Suddenly, two Moros made a mad dash for the gate—cutting and slashing with their krises—until they were shot to death. It later developed that they were the Sultan of Bayang and his brother. Dying in this manner, they had hoped to wipe out the disgrace of their defeat. “Our soldiers did not escape lightly in the attack. A few men were killed and

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several wounded. Among the dead were Lieutenants Thomas A. Vickers and Albert L. Jossman of Company F.” For the next three years, despite attempts to placate the sultans and datus, the Moros continued to raid and plunder Filipino villages, and ambush Americans. On April 2, 1903 General George W. Davis—commanding the Lake Lanao district—ordered a battalion of Twenty-seventh Infantry under Captain John J. Pershing to lead an expedition along the western coast of the lake. Of particular interest to Davis was the reduction of the Moro cotta at Baclod. In his report of the battle to the United States Secretary of War, Elihu Root, Pershing stated: “Our force consisted of 500 men—infantry and cavalry—two mountain guns, and two 3.5-inch mortars. Supply boats followed us parallel to the lake’s shore. Much to the surprise of the Moros, we were able to get behind their cotta and posted our artillery on a slope above the fort. We had some difficulty in gaining this position. Once there, however, it was only a question of waiting to see what the Moros would do. “The battle began in a violent thunderstorm that lasted until dark. Reconnoitering was difficult, so we were unable to cut off all avenues of escape until the next day. In retrospect, I am glad that we did, because inside the cotta were many women and children that managed to flee the fort in the darkness and stormy weather. “When the sun came up, we tried to get the Muslims to surrender and held two conferences under a flag of truce. The talks, however, were unsuccessful. I called my officers together and gave each one his assignment. “The main obstacle to our front was a deep trench—eighty-five feet wide and forty feet deep—that had to be crossed. We cut down trees and filled the ditch with timber and brush. A bamboo bridge was then laid across the trench. As soon as everything was in readiness, the assault began. “In the face of Mauser fire, our lines advanced against two sides of the fort. The Moros could not use their rifle portholes as we had destroyed the openings with mountain guns and mortars. However, the artillery was too light to breach the walls of the cotta. “When our men reached the top of the parapet, they were met by screaming, kriss-swinging natives. The fighting was hand-to-hand. One soldier against two Moros here, another soldier running his bayonet into a fanatic there. It was a horrific scene of pandemonium—never to be forgotten by all who were there. Too much cannot be said of the valor, bravery, courage, and cool nerve of the American soldier. “The battle lasted about thirty minutes. Our officers counted sixty dead natives along the top of the breastworks. The Moros claimed that a hundred more people had been killed within the walls of the cotta. Fortunately none of our men had been killed. Two soldiers will lose an arm, and a few dozen others will recover from wounds with honorable scars. This has been a severe lesson for the Moros, but maybe they now realize that our purpose is to be as humane as they will permit us. I cannot help feel that we have successfully accomplished the as-

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signed mission and believe that this battle is the largest single achievement that our forces have made in this island.” In early December 1903 the Twenty-second U.S. Infantry Regiment arrived at Iligan. One battalion was stationed at Pantar. The rest of the regiment set up camp at Marahui. Lieutenant Parker Hitt recalled: “Our orders were to maintain peace among the lake tribes. Another regiment had constructed ten crude, flatbottom boats that could carry about a dozen men each, but they proved unseaworthy. Nevertheless, in January 1904, we used them—along with six Moro canoes—in an expedition against the Sultan of Ramain.” In his report of the mission Major J. S. Parke stated: “At 3 A.M., on the morning of 22 January 1904, the First Battalion, Twenty-second Infantry, boarded barges and native canoes. Our destination was seven miles across the northern end of Lake Lanao. Companies C and D were landed a short distance from Ramain with orders to advance on the cotta from behind. Companies A and C—along with two rowboats carrying a Gatling and Vickers-Maxim gun— continued on to the fort. “At the mouth of the Ramain River, we were met by several minor officials. The nervous chatter and agitated behavior of the natives plainly indicated that they were planning an attack. Raising red umbrellas over their heads, the tribesmen dashed excitedly about, arguing among themselves until their leaders shouted for them to quiet down. “After a short parley with a couple of datus, we paddled upstream. Along the route, the umbrella men screamed continuously at another tribe on the opposite riverbank. The datus had told us that, although they themselves were friendly, the ‘bad’ Moros were the ones across the river. “Ramain consisted of several miles of cottas on the north side of the river. Similar cottas had been built on the south bank. Our boats would be running a narrow gauntlet. At any moment a short-range, murderous fire could be opened up on us. “A detachment of soldiers was landed and kept pace with the lead boat. As we proceeded slowly upriver, many armed natives could be seen hurrying toward a large fort a short distance ahead. The shore troops were ordered to approach and investigate the formidable looking cotta. Within the fort, a number of Moros could be seen aiming their rifles at our soldiers advancing along the riverbank. Seeing the danger, Lieutenants Campbell Flake and William Roberts shouted for the men to rush the cotta. The two officers were immediately cut down by a volley of rifle fire. There was no room for our troops to deploy. Many men jumped in the water to escape the enemy bullets. “Reinforcements hurried ashore and charged the cotta. No quarter was given or asked. The Moros quickly realized that they were not dealing with the Spaniards. They were not prepared for this kind of furious assault and attempted to flee. The Moro warriors were chased from one cotta to another until white flags appeared over the forts.” A month after the battle on the Ramain River, Captain Peter W. Davison

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stopped at a small village to buy bamboo. While talking with the natives, he heard the story of the Spanish gunboats that had been scuttled in the lake six years earlier. An elderly Moro chief recalled that he had made some marks on trees near his cotta, which he claimed gave intersecting lines of sight on a point where oil and debris from the boats had floated to the surface. Lieutenant Parker Hitt stated: “Before we had a chance to authenticate the chief’s information, headquarters at Manila sent us a twenty-eight-foot steam launch. The boat was delivered in sections to Iligan. The hull was hauled to the lake on an improvised rig drawn by eight mules. The engine, boilers, fittings, and coal followed in other wagons. “Within two days we had the Relief—as we named her—in the water and all machinery installed. A shakedown cruise was planned for the next day but had to be canceled. General Leonard Wood arrived and wanted to go across the lake. So we got up steam and headed out. The little hussy had a tricky water-tube boiler, a compound condensing engine, and an unbelievable appetite for coal and lubricating oil.” General Wood had received orders to subdue the more hostile Moro tribes. Number one on his list was Sultan Machu at Taraca. On the early morning of April 2, the Third Battalion of the Twenty-second Infantry embarked aboard native canoes and headed across the lake. About 6:30 A.M., when the boats were about five hundred yards from the mouth of the Taraca River, groups of natives could be seen running to their cottas. Moments later the Moros opened fire and screamed threats and insults at the Americans. In his report of the action Captain J. L. Donovan stated: “Our native guides seemed to have little knowledge of the shoreline. The lake soon merged into a thick, grassy swamp. As we rounded a bend, a break in the marshland revealed a small bay and a large cotta about fifty feet inland. A group of noisy, angry Moros had congregated at the entrance to the fort. “When we had approached to within a hundred yards of the beach, Colonel Marion P. Maus called out to the natives that we wanted to land our boats. The cotta’s chief was belligerent and insolent. He refused our request, claiming that women and children were inside the compound. Colonel Maus attempted to assure the datu that we meant no harm to his people, but the Moros became more militant and kept up a screaming tirade. “Suddenly the excited natives opened fire with rifles and lantacas. Our Gatling and Vickers-Maxim guns immediately answered the attack. Two men of Company M were wounded by the initial enemy barrage, but our superior firepower quickly disrupted the aim of the Moros. Although most of the boats were struck, and many lantaca slugs splashed nearby, we suffered no further casualties. “Moments later, Colonel Maus shouted the order to charge the cotta. We ran the boats up on the beach. The soldiers jumped ashore and—under cover of machine gun fire—breached the walls of the fort. Yelling frenzied shrieks, the natives abandoned the cotta and ran howling into the jungle. “Scouts were sent out, and more defiant cottas were discovered nearby. We

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were instructed to wait for reinforcements. The next morning, we were joined by the Second Battalion and two troops of the Fourteenth U.S. Cavalry. “Throughout the day, small bands of allegedly friendly Moros strolled into our bivouac, some bearing white flags. Others carried curious Chinese-made American flags with thirteen stars. One group was led by a native waving a large flag from a U.S. Army transport vessel. We thought it best not to ask him where he obtained the banner. “These Moros came from parts of the lake region that had proven to be hostile. But, in the face of superior forces, they were loud in their assertion of friendship—especially when they saw the Stars and Stripes planted firmly on hitherto unconquered Taraca soil. Colonel Maus was offered gifts of fruit, chickens, and eggs—no strings attached, so they said.” On the morning of the 10th, Companies F and G, under Captain David Wheeler, were sent upstream to investigate a cotta that was reported to contain many rifles and a large quantity of ammunition. Upon reaching the fort Wheeler attempted to negotiate a surrender. The native chief denied having guns but said that his followers were willing to surrender their other weapons. Wheeler was cautious and, as women and children emerged from the bamboo doorway, he ordered them taken to a place of safety. A few tribesmen then appeared and—walking slowly from the cotta—dropped their bolo knives on the ground. A moment later about fifty screaming Moros dashed from the fort, slashing the air with their deadly long knives. A hail of bullets met the charging natives. Wheeler was the only American casualty—he was stabbed through the heart. When the smoke cleared, the bodies of thirty Moros carpeted the ground. On April 11 the Second and Third Battalions returned to Marahui. However, Companies F and G were directed to remain at the entrance of the Taraca River. An outpost was established and named Camp Wheeler in memory of the dead captain. Meanwhile, Captain Davison had located the Spanish gunboat General Almonte at a depth of ninety feet and made arrangements to salvage the scuttled ship. Frederick J. Davies, an English deep-sea diver, was put in command of the project. Two soldiers with diving experience and a group of friendly natives made up the work party. Davies and his crew built two deck-covered barges and assembled anchors, hawsers, winches, buoys, and other equipment that would be needed. Lieutenant Parker Hitt described the difficulties encountered in raising the vessel: “All was ready about the end of April. I had the barges towed out to buoys that marked the gunboat’s location. A few weeks of hard work followed placing bow and stern lines under the ship. The water was so murky that the divers had to work in complete darkness. “Once the ropes and slings had been attached, we were hampered by the fact that there was no tide to help lift the vessel. The job had to be accomplished by using winches and a lot of muscle-power. The Spanish gunboat was finally freed from the mud and raised forty-seven feet. But as she was towed slowly

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toward the dock, one of the slings broke, and the ship dropped about five feet and crunched against some jagged rocks.” Although the Relief gave the army a visual presence on the lake, it was not authoritative enough to suppress native uprisings—only a warship could accomplish that. Therefore, in May 1904 U.S. Army headquarters at Manila decided to send a gunboat for service on Lake Lanao. Lieutenant Hitt remarked: “The vessel arrived at Iligan in boxes, bundles and bales and was accompanied by Ship Constructor Turnbull and a hundred Chinese laborers. The gunboat was named the Flake in memory of Lieutenant Campbell Flake who was killed in the Ramain expedition. The ship was sixty-five feet long with a twelve-foot beam and a draft of four feet. “Under Turnbull’s able direction, the Flake was launched on 20 June. With her Scotch boiler and compound noncondensing engine, she was a fine sturdy boat and well suited for towing barges and long rafts. “The Flake mounted a Vickers-Maxim gun on her bow and a Gatling gun aft. Thus armed, she was the ‘Dreadnought’ of the lake. A crew of five Filipinos ran the ship under my supervision and kept her in apple-pie order.” Much to the consternation of the natives, the Flake began operating on a daily schedule—patrolling the lake on a triangular course between Marahui, Taraca, and Bayang. Although the majority of Moro chieftains professed allegiance to the United States, the Sultan of Oatu boasted that the Americans had better stay away from his district. Lieutenant Hitt recalled: “Our regimental commander, Colonel Henry Wygant, directed me to take the Flake into Oatu Bay to see what would happen. In addition to the gunboat’s crew, I took along nine sharpshooters and an extra machine gun. “The sultan’s village was guarded by three stone cottas—two of them on commanding hills overlooking the bay. The terrain was known to be rugged and in many places impassable. “All seemed quiet ashore, as we rounded the point to enter the harbor. Suddenly, long, red Moro streamers broke out from flag poles around the cottas and on the hillside. Moments later, we were subjected to heavy rifle and lantaca fire. Fortunately we were out of rifle range, but three cannon shots hit our ship. Our guns immediately went into action shooting at the white puffs of smoke floating from the cotta walls. We cruised around the bay until all our ammunition was gone, then headed back to Marahui. “Upon our return, I reported the gun battle to Colonel Wygant. He became angry at the sultan’s defiance, and a military expedition against Oatu was ordered.” On the early morning of October 24, 1904, the Second Battalion, Twentysecond Infantry, climbed aboard barges and, towed by the Flake, moved quietly toward Oatu Bay. At the same time, a troop of Fourteenth Cavalry—a battalion of the Twenty-third Infantry—and an artillery battery covered the land approaches to the cottas.

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The gunboat flotilla reached Oatu Bay at daybreak. The Moros immediately opened fire from their positions on the high cliffs. The Flake’s machine guns answered the attack and swept the bluffs with deadly accuracy. Captain Robert Hamilton described the savage battle: “Under cover of the barrage, our troops were landed and swarmed the beachhead. However, moving inland was difficult. Thick underbrush, boulders, and a maze of rock walls impeded the progress. And, as if that was not difficult enough, small groups of natives pounced on our column from concealed hiding places. “According to Colonel Wygant’s original plan, the field battery was to join the assault as soon as all the soldiers were ashore. But, the nature of the terrain was such that the artillery was late in arriving. “After six hours of fierce combat, the first cotta was charged and captured. Several lantacas and a couple of ancient Spanish cannons were found. The largest of these could fire a six-inch solid shot. Fortunately, the Moros did not have ammunition for this gun. “Our troops took a short rest and then continued their advance toward the next cotta. Battle flags could be seen flying from the walls of the fort, and the ominous beat of tom-toms echoed from within. “The Moros were jubilant as they watched our battalion advance. The cotta had been built in an excellent defensive location and could only be approached by single file. But, just as we were preparing for a tough fight, the artillery battery arrived. The battalion was ordered to withdraw to a safe position while the guns pounded the stronghold. As soon as cease firing was called, we stormed the fort. It was captured without resistance. “Shrapnel and shell fragments were found throughout the cotta. The walls were splattered with blood, showing where slivers of steel had ripped through flesh and bone. Lantacas loaded and aimed but never fired indicated a hasty abandonment of the fortification. Most of the Moros had fled into the surrounding mountains.” After a few weeks of negotiations, the Sultan of Oatu surrendered to American authorities, and all was quiet on Lake Lanao for a couple of years. With a fragile peace now hovering over Lake Lanao, the Americans once again turned their attention to the sunken Spanish ships. By the end of December 1904, the General Almonte had been repaired, and she was ready to join the Flake in patrolling the lake. In February 1905, heavier equipment arrived at Marahui to try and lift one of the larger Spanish gunboats—the Lanao. Lieutenant Hitt stated: “Mr. Davies had been down several times to look the Lanao over, and both of us had serious doubts whether this 92-foot ship could be raised—but we decided to accept the challenge. The gunboat was two miles out in the lake at a depth of about a hundred feet. “Within a couple of months—employing the new machinery—we had placed slings under the vessel, and raised her twenty-five feet. However, while towing the ship toward shore, we soon found our way blocked by one of the scuttled

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barges. Work was temporarily halted on the Lanao. Pontoons were attached to the flat-boat, and it was easily floated to the wharf. The barge was in pretty good condition, considering the fact that it had been resting on the bottom of the lake for more than six years. “After the flat-boat had been cleaned up and painted, it made a fine addition to our fleet and could carry as many as two hundred soldiers. The craft towed easily, and its shallow draft made it possible to be beached almost anywhere on the lake.” By the end of September the Lanao had been successfully towed to Marahui and efforts to remodel the ship began. Parker Hitt continued his account: “Mud was scraped from the hull, and it was painted with red lead inside and out. The engines, pumps, and boilers were repaired. The steering gear, from wheel to rudder, was put in working order, and the superstructure was rebuilt. “The ship’s guns had been removed by the Spaniards. The only weapon we had available was a Vickers-Maxim gun, and it was mounted on the bow. “I had been waiting for several days for a shipment of white paint to cover the glaring red prime coat. It had still not arrived by 24 October, when we received orders to take the gunboat out on a trial run. “The cruise was a success in every way. When the natives saw the resurrected Lanao—painted in the Moro war colors of bright red—and heard her guns fired, they fled to the hills by the hundreds. The governor of the Moro Province sent out special couriers to assure the superstitious tribes that they would not be attacked. Nevertheless, it was not until a week later—when the Lanao had received a coat of white paint—that the natives felt safe enough to return to their cottas.” During the next few years two more sunken barges were raised and salvaged, along with the Spanish gunboats General Blanco and the Corcuera. But peace in the area still remained elusive, and the army’s naval patrol of the lake became a necessity, as hot coals of revolt continued to burst into flame. As Lieutenant Parker Hitt once remarked philosophically, “Times may change, but the Moros will always remain Moros!”

29

The Battle of Bud Bagsak The Sulu Sea archipelago consists of approximately 200 islands stretching 275 miles southwest from Mindanao to Borneo. In an article published in the Washington Transcript of July 1, 1902, Rene Bache described the culture and customs of the Moros who inhabited the Sulu Sea islands: “The Sulu Moros are of Malay heritage—mixed to some extent with Chinese and Filipinos. Their houses are built of reed or bamboo and are elevated on posts about five feet above the ground. The dwellings are either square or rectangular and have a sloping roof thatched with palm leaves. “Large chests inside the homes serve as wardrobes and for storing valuables. The cabinets are positioned in the center of each room, and mats for sleeping are placed on top. At night, the space is enclosed with chintz curtains. “The wealthy Moros import every imaginable luxury, and their homes are elegantly furnished. They have Chinese and Spanish glassware, crockery, iron cooking utensils, English cutlery, and expensive rugs. “Pearl fisheries are the source of much of the wealth in the islands. Slaves dive for the pearl oysters, and any slave who finds a large pearl is freed from bondage. “The chief exports of the archipelago are sea slugs, beeswax, edible bird’s nests, tortoise shells, seaweed, rattan, sago palm, pepper, camphor, cinnamon, and cloves. The Moros raise goats and also grow sugarcane, cotton, tobacco, and yams. Wild hogs are numerous in the islands and are hunted for sport. “The favorite amusements of the natives are music and dancing. The chiefs play the flute, guitar or violin, and everybody sings Spanish ballads. Both men and women are passionately addicted to gambling. Polygamy is lawful, and each wife is entitled to a separate room in her husband’s house. Men, who can afford the luxury, have many concubines.

29.1

The Island of Jolo

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“Each island has its own datu, or ruler, with the Sultan of Jolo as the acknowledged leader. The datus form a governing council in which the sultan has two votes. All the land is owned by the datus, and the average native is severely oppressed. It is common practice for a datu, if he fancies the daughter of one of his subjects, to take her for a concubine. “A Sulu nobleman never goes abroad without being accompanied by several armed followers. In fact, weapons form an important part of the Moro uniform. Each native carries a kris, a lance, and a blowgun that shoots poisoned darts. “The costume for a wealthy Sulu man consists of wide cotton trousers and a cotton or silk jacket with a girdle around the waist. A checked shawl is usually worn across the shoulders. On festive occasions, the nobles wear beautiful gold embroidered silk mandarin robes and colorful satin pants decorated with gold dragons. A red turban is worn on the head. “The men let their hair grow long, dye their teeth black with beetlenut juice, and shave their eyebrows so as to leave a thin crescent-shaped arch. “The women wear trousers of white cotton or knee-length flowered silk. And over these, a petticoat and short jacket of vari-colored cloth. A scarf is worn over the shoulder, and the hair is tied up at the crown of the head.” In his memoirs Captain Sydney Cloman, Twenty-third U.S. Infantry Regiment, described the natives of the Sulu Sea Islands in a different light: “The Sulu Moros are at best not a handsome people. Their scaly faces, small shifty eyes, and awful looking mouths—with teeth black from chewing betel nuts— take away from their brightly colored vestments and beautifully inlaid knives. “Moro women are treated as a lower caste—almost like domestic animals. Wealthy Moros are usually tribal chiefs and have many slaves. These servants do nothing but loaf about and cater to the whims of their masters. “Each island chief is judge and jury to arguments that are brought before him. As a rule, any man that cannot pay his debts is made a slave in the chief’s household. Most crimes concerning property—and this includes women—are punishable by death. Tempers among the tribesmen are fragile, and since a Moro is never without his weapons, many disputes end in homicides.” On August 20, 1899 General John C. Bates negotiated a shaky treaty with the Sultan of Jolo and the datus of the Sulu Sea islands that would give the United States sovereignty over the archipelago. But pockets of revolt, especially on Jolo, made it a tenuous peace. In 1903 General Leonard Wood was appointed governor of the First Moro Province that included the islands of Mindanao and Jolo. Wood’s orders were to stamp out Moro resistance “wherever found.” But after three frustrating years the Sultan of Jolo still refused to surrender his rule. Fearing retaliation by the United States, rebellious Jolo Moros fled to Bud Dajo, the crater of an extinct volcano, and supposedly the dwelling place of their ancestor’s spirits, who would protect them in time of battle. The crater and its defenses covered about fifteen acres, with only three narrow trails leading

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more than a thousand feet up to the summit. Water was available, and the Moros kept the crater well stocked with food and weapons. In early March 1906 Colonel Hugh L. Scott, commander of the American garrison at Jolo City, sent a delegation of friendly datus to Bud Dajo to try and persuade the defiant natives to give themselves up. But after two days of unsuccessful negotiations, the datus returned to Colonel Scott’s headquarters and reported their failure to convince the tribesmen to surrender. Meanwhile, General Wood arrived at Jolo City with two companies of the U.S. Nineteenth Infantry Regiment and a naval detachment to reinforce Scott’s garrison. On the morning of March 5, General Wood—commanding a force of 800 officers and men—approached Bud Dajo and camped at the base of the volcano. After another attempt to reason with the belligerent Moros had failed, Wood positioned his men for an attack. Mountain guns commenced their bombardment and, on signal the Americans scrambled up the steep slope. Enemy fire was fierce but unorganized. Upon reaching the rim of the volcano, the soldiers quickly dropped down into the crater. It was like falling into hell. The entire Moro community—screaming, waving knives, and using children as shields—charged the invaders. Men, women, and children were cut down in hand-to-hand combat. Some of the Moros played dead and attacked hospital corpsmen attempting to save the wounded. By the time that the fighting finally stopped, approximately 600 Moros lay dead in the crater. Considering the viciousness of the battle, American casualties were relatively light—thirty-three men killed and fifty-nine wounded. The massacre at Bud Dajo was reported in horrific detail by the American press. The Washington Post referred to General Leonard Wood as a “bloodthirsty monster.” Prominent Moro leaders, however, agreed that Wood had done what was best under the circumstances and had eliminated many of the bad elements from the island. But their assumptions were premature. Violence and terrorism in Jolo continued to frustrate the U.S. Army. In 1909 General John J. Pershing was appointed governor of the First Moro Province. Pershing was determined to end the uprisings and proposed a radical solution to the problem: “The possession of arms by the terrorists has nullified the most earnest efforts toward civil rule, and has left the peaceable natives at the mercy of the rebels. In my opinion—although many oppose it—there is only one solution—disarm the Moros. Up to this time, it had not been considered wise, and I realize that in some areas disarmament will be stubbornly resisted.” Before definitely deciding on implementing a strategy of this kind, Pershing visited each section of his province and discussed the idea with the Moro chieftains. Many of the datus questioned the wisdom of the general’s decision, contending that it would be an unwarranted interference with ancient customs and could result in a native uprising. They would, however, agree to the order if it would apply to both the good and rebellious Moros.

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On September 8, 1911, Pershing issued a proclamation making it unlawful for the natives to carry firearms and knives. This order would go into effect on December 1. Arrangements were made for the U.S. government to pay for all weapons surrendered prior to that date, and notices were posted throughout the islands. By the end of the following year, disarmament had been generally completed except for certain areas on Jolo. The Lati tribe, located near the center of the island, was home to a large group of hostile Moros under the leadership of Datu Amil. Whenever American troops entered the Lati district to capture the datu, all men, women, and children fled to the crater of another extinct volcano— Bud Bagsak. At times the crater would be packed with from six to ten thousand natives—most of them noncombatants. A few adjoining peaks, each with its own cotta, made the Bagsak fortress complex a formidable defensive bastion. In the meantime, peace talks were going nowhere. Amil and his followers continually raided villages and ambushed American infantry and calvary patrols. Finally, after a series of conferences, a tentative agreement was reached in February 1913 whereby U.S. Army troops would withdraw from the Lati district, and the Moros would lay down their arms and return home. After the soldiers had left, many of the native families came back to their dwellings and began planting crops. However, it soon became evident that the hard-core rebels did not intend to abandon their mountain stronghold. Datu Amil also arranged for the Lati people to flee to Bud Bagsak at the slightest indication of American troops advancing toward the fortress. Several days later Amil and his renegades staged a successful night attack on the U.S. Army barracks at Jolo City. Flush with victory and drunk with betel nut juice, the Moros raided army storehouses, pillaged native villages and then, screaming like banshees, rushed back to the safety of Bud Bagsak. They immediately strengthened the surrounding cottas and shouted defiance at the authority of the United States. General Pershing realized that a siege of the fortress would not be feasible. He could not afford to starve the Moros into surrendering, since many women and children had taken refuge in the crater. There was only one solution to the problem—a surprise assault on Bud Bagsak. In early June Pershing called off all field operations and reconnaissance patrols in the Sulu Sea islands. Then, on June 9, he notified the Jolo garrison that he would be leaving to visit his family at Marahui. This information was also disclosed to the Moros. That evening General Pershing and his aide, Lieutenant James L. Collins, boarded the Army Transport Wright—supposedly bound for the northeast coast of Mindanao. However, as soon as the ship was out of sight from land, the Wright changed course and steamed to Basilan Island, where Captain George C. Charlton and his 51st Company of Moro scouts secretly came aboard. The ship continued south, skirting Jolo, and anchoring at Siasi Island. About noon

29.2 Bamboo Grove Showing the Position of the 51st and 52nd Moro Scouts at the Final Assault on the Bagsak Cotta, June 15, 1913

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on June 10, the 52nd Company of Moro scouts, commanded by Captain Taylor A. Nichols, joined Charlton’s detachment. Throughout the afternoon the Wright steamed north, snaking its way among the small islands south of Jolo. At dusk all lights were ordered extinguished, and at 8 P.M. the transport slipped unobserved into the harbor at Jolo City. Lieutenant Collins immediately went ashore and hurried to the post commander’s quarters. Collins stated: “Our plans for secrecy had succeeded so well, that when I arrived with the orders for the Bud Bagsak attack, practically all the officers were in dress whites. They were with their wives and being entertained at the commanding officer’s home.” The army garrison was quickly assembled, and all officers who were to participate in the mission gathered at the district governor’s residence. General Pershing’s orders were strict and to the point: “The object of this operation is to disarm—with as little loss of life as possible—those hostile Moros who have refused to give up their arms. All captured cottas will be destroyed. However, any person engaged in the wanton destruction of life and property will be severely punished. The cooperation of our different groups is essential to the success of the attack, and great care must be taken to prevent soldiers from shooting at each other.” Pershing now faced the difficult task of combining his separate forces into a single cohesive unit. M Company, Eighth U.S. Cavalry, and a hospital detachment were directed to join the Moro scouts aboard the Wright. Meanwhile, a fleet of small craft had been quietly assembling in the harbor area. Lieutenant Collins recalled: “Practically every launch, sampan and barge in the Southern Islands had been concentrated at Jolo City to carry approximately 1,200 officers and men to a clandestine landing at Bunbun—a village on the island’s north-central coast. “The 21st, 29th, and 40th Companies of Philippine Scouts scrambled aboard the invasion boats. Two mountain gun batteries boarded launches, and sampans towed barges carrying supplies and ammunition. “Just before the fleet sailed, General Pershing ordered Captain Patrick Moylan to force-march the 24th and 25th Companies of Philippine Scouts to the south slope of Bud Bagsak and to arrive at daybreak. Lieutenant John Sayles was instructed to take a troop of Eighth Cavalry, with a pack train and mountain gun, and meet Pershing at Bunbun.” At one o’clock on the morning of June 11, 1913, the Wright sneaked unobserved out of Jolo Harbor and steamed northeast along the island’s dark, foreboding coastline. A couple of hours later the crowded army transport anchored at Bunbun. Pershing’s troops immediately disembarked and established a base camp. They were joined at daybreak by Sayles’ cavalry troop, mountain gun and pack train. The assault force was rapidly organized in two columns, and making as little noise as possible, moved inland toward Bud Bagsak—three and a half miles distant. At seven o’clock the morning quiet was broken by the sound of enemy gun-

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fire. Through the mist forward units of Pershing’s scouts could see their objective about a mile ahead. The crest of Bud Bagsak, its defiant cottas crowned with various colored flags, looked frightening and deadly. Lieutenant Collins described the formidable network of the Bud Bagsak defenses. “Bagsak Mountain was the highest of a series of peaks rising from the rim of a horseshoe shaped crater. The shoe was eight hundred yards wide, a thousand feet from heel to toe, and open to the north-northwest. Two stone cottas—Puyacabao and Bunga—had been built at each heel of the shoe, and looked down on the Puhagan cotta. The Languasan cotta guarded the road to Bunbun. The Matunkup cotta stood at the fifteen hundred foot level, between Puyacabao on the eastern rim and Bud Bagsak at the two-thousand-foot summit. The slopes of the mountain were heavily wooded and very precipitous.” While reconnoitering the area, General Pershing noticed that the Languasan, Puyacabao, and Matunkup cottas constituted a defensive front of their own and would have to be attacked at the same time. Then, once the Bagsak perimeter was breached, the remaining forts could be taken separately. Captain George C. Shaw’s column—consisting of a company of cavalry, the 40th Philippine Scouts, and a mountain gun battery commanded by Lieutenant Carl F. McKinney—was given the assignment to capture the Languasan cotta. In his report Lieutenant McKinney described the action: “As our column advanced to within fifteen hundred yards of the Moro stronghold, we could see people rushing about. Their defiant shouts, the ringing of large bells and gongs, the incessant beating of tom-toms, the boom of lantakas, and occasional rifle fire, all combined to make a frightful racket. “The infantry was deployed for the assault on Languasan. The cotta was entrenched with a sort of breastwork and very effective bamboo entanglements. The mountain gun immediately fired a few shells that set fire to some huts. This caused a great deal of commotion within the fort—more yelling, earsplitting ringing of bells, and frantic pounding of tom-toms. Our scouts quickly came under rifle and lantaka fire. We continued the artillery salvos with shrapnel ammunition. “When the assault echelons reached a knoll—about two hundred yards from the cotta—I was ordered to halt the advance and cease firing. Captain Shaw decided that there would be a needless loss of life in attempting a frontal attack. “McKinney was directed to bring the mountain gun up the hill to the knoll, where he could bombard the cotta and keep the natives occupied while the infantry maneuvered to a more advantageous position. This strategy, however, took longer to accomplish than anticipated. The hillside was so steep that the artillery piece had to be pushed and pulled up the slope by hand. It took McKinney and his men an hour to reach the knoll. The mountain gun was immediately set up in the center of the infantry line and began shelling the enemy positions.” At 11:45 A.M., Shaw’s scouts forced their way into Languasan and captured

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the cotta. It was a hollow victory. Most of the defenders had managed to escape and flee to the other forts. But Shaw and his troops suddenly found themselves in a hornet’s nest. Bullets began stinging the soldiers from all sides—Puhagan to the front, Puyacabao and Matunkup on the left, Bunga to the right, and Bagsak across the crater. Shaw yelled for his men to dig in. But they had no shovels and were forced to use their mess kits for scooping out rifle pits in the hard ground: Two soldiers were killed and five wounded in the enemy’s barrage of gunfire. Meanwhile, Pershing’s second column, commanded by Captain Taylor Nichols—comprising the 29th Philippine Scouts, and the 51st and 52nd Moro Scouts—had been ordered to seize Puyacabao and Matunkup. A mountain gun battery, under Lieutenant Thomas F. Van Natta, was assigned to Nichols as artillery support. Captain Nichols led his men up the side of the mountain and along a ravine that separated the two cottas. The 29th and 52nd Scout companies crawled unseen over the rim of the crater and silently worked their way through thick underbrush down the slope toward Puyacabao. On command, the scouts stormed the cotta and captured the fort in hand-to-hand fighting. While the enemy’s attention was focused on the battle raging at Puyacabao, Nichols sent the 51st Moro Scouts against Matunkup. The troops scaled a hundred foot vine-encrusted cliff and took the fort completely by surprise. By 12:30 P.M. both cottas had been captured. The loss of Puyacabao and Matunkup was not only a severe blow to the Bud Bagsak defenses, but also relieved the pressure on Shaw’s left flank, which had been under fire from the two forts. Captain Shaw’s position was strategically important to General Pershing’s plans. It blocked the mouth of the crater, preventing visits by the wives and children of the Bud Bagsak defenders. The Moros realized that they were trapped, and the frantic firing of rifles and lantakas increased in volume. The enemy’s accurate shooting from the Bunga cotta was particularly troublesome to Shaw’s troops. At 4 P.M. Pershing ordered Van Natta’s mountain gun battery to join McKinney at Languasan. Both artillery pieces then concentrated their fire on Bunga. Just before dark Pershing sent Shaw word to withdraw back down the hill if he thought his position was too dangerous to hold. Shaw, however, believed that his force was strong enough to stop any Moro attack. He formed his scouts in a circle, with half the men on watch while the others slept. Lieutenant Carl McKinney described the anxious night: “The mountain guns were loaded with shrapnel, and fuses set at zero so that they could fire a canistertype shot in case of a mad charge by the Moros. There were a few rushes during the night by small bands of hysterical natives, but they were beaten back.” At 9 A.M. General Pershing sent Captain Patrick Moylan and two companies of Philippine Scouts to reinforce Shaw’s weary infantrymen. Lieutenant Collins narrated: “Looking across the 300 yards that separated us from the Puhagan

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cotta, shrieking Moros could be seen and heard scurrying about their trenches. They were dressed in their finest clothes and most colorful costumes. One of our old-time sergeants shouted to his men, ‘Be alert! They’re going to charge! They’re going to charge! They’ve gotten themselves all dressed up to die!’ “Moments later, a mob of screaming natives—waving flags, spears and knives—dashed from the fort. A large group of fanatics ran straight at us. They were immediately cut down but distracted our soldiers long enough for the other Puhagan Moros to escape into a deep ravine where they were lost from sight. “Because of the topography of the hilly terrain, we did not see the charging enemy until thay were almost on top of us. They rushed up the slope in staggered waves. But our men stood firm and fired long, rolling volleys that dropped the gaily decked figures like broken dolls. The charge ended as quickly as it began. Not one Puhagan managed to reach our trenches. Such is the do-or-die bravery of the Moro warrior.” With the Puhagan cotta no longer a threat, Pershing reconnoitered the area to find the best route for an attack on the Bagsak fort. The only suitable path, however, ran below the guns of the Bunga cotta. Bunga would have to be captured before the trail could be used. On the morning of the 13th Captain Moylan, commanding two companies of Philippine Scouts, and Van Natta’s mountain gun battery launched their attack on Bunga. The cotta had been built on a narrow rock formation and was protected by sheer cliffs. The scouts scaled the heights and fought their way into the fort. By this time the Moro defenders were low on ammunition, and the fight was over in thirty minutes. Meanwhile, Pershing and Collins made a reconnaissance to plan the best approach to the Bagsak cotta. Collins stated: “We crawled along the edge of the crater to within seventy-five yards of the fort. The natives did not see us. They were too busy watching the attack on Bunga and jabbering excitedly among themselves. On the way back to our camp we intercepted a wig-wag signal from Captain Moylan revealing that the Bunga cotta was now in our hands.” Upon returning to his field headquarters, Pershing learned that a direct advance up the crater would expose his troops to devastating enemy fire throughout the march. It would be necessary to find a safe jumping-off place near the cotta. Most of the day on the 14th was spent reconnoitering the mountain. Captain Charlton and a scout company finally located an area between the Bunga and Bagsak cottas from which to launch the attack. Charlton stated: “By taking advantage of a deep ravine, we found a favorable spot about five hundred yards south of Bagsak. It was well-hidden in a grove of bamboo.” At 7 A.M. on the morning of June 15, 1913, after a heavy fog had cleared, General Pershing rang the bell to begin the final round of the Bud Bagsak struggle. Lieutenant Collins recalled the general’s combat orders: “The mountain guns would open the battle by firing regular shells at the enemy trenches and cotta. After using up this ammunition, they would switch to shrapnel and, be-

The Battle of Bud Bagsak

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ginning with the dwellings situated on the ridge leading to the fort, they would cut a path to the summit. “Captain Charlton would then move the 51st and 52nd Moro Scouts into the bamboo grove near the foot of the ravine. One side of the ravine was heavily wooded. The other side—where the attack was to be made—had been cleared and fortified with ten bamboo buildings. It was at this spot that the slope narrowed and turned sharply to the left. Across the entire front of the clearing, Datu Amil and his men had constructed three successive lines of standing trenches protected by logs. To the right and left of the trenches, they had built thick bamboo fences that prevented any flank attacks. The cotta would have to be taken head-on.” At 8:30 A.M. the mountain guns opened the battle. As quietly as possible Charlton moved his scouts into the grove and thirty minutes later began the advance up the slope. Under protective fire from the artillery, the scouts reached the first line of trenches before enemy resistance stiffened. About eleven o’clock Charlton signaled for more ammunition. Lieutenant Collins narrated: “I took twenty men and all the ammunition we could carry and joined Charlton to assess the situation. Our position at this time looked rather precarious. The enemy occupied most of the high ground. I sent a message to Pershing stating that I had called up the 24th Philippine Scouts to extend our right flank. “Pershing joined us about noon. I told the general about another problem that had developed. It seemed that the Moro scouts—as brave as they were—made little headway against determined resistance without American leadership. Many of our officers had lost their lives on Jolo during the previous year, and we were dangerously short of experienced soldiers. “Pershing’s original instructions had been for American officers to remain behind the front lines and direct the battle using Moro squad leaders as message runners. Immediately grasping the situation, the general reversed his orders and sent the Americans to the front where they could lead the attack personally. “The effect was immediate and electric. With the officers prodding their men and leading the charge, the troops began to tear down the bamboo fences on the right of the line. Our covering rifle fire was so intense that it was fatal for any defender to show his head.” As the fighting increased in ferocity, Pershing hurried to the front to direct the assault on the cotta. Collins continued: “While directing operations, the general stood so close to a trench that his life was endangered by spears that were being continually hurled from the fort. I saw one soldier, struck full in the chest by a long spear, fall backwards into a trench. The spear quivered in his body until a comrade, pressing a foot against the wounded man’s chest, pulled it out. “The fence was soon torn down. We now had a position on the right flank from where the trenches and cotta could be successfully attacked. Suddenly the

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Moro rebels jumped from their trenches and rushed our lines in a suicide charge. It was Moro against Moro in hand-to-hand combat. “By five o’clock, Charlton’s scouts had overrun the enemy trenches and stormed into the cotta. Our casualties in the Bud Bagsak battle were fifteen men killed and twenty-five wounded. Enemy losses were more than 500 dead and approximately a thousand wounded.” General Pershing remarked upon the bravery of his opponent: “The capture of Bud Bagsak entailed the heaviest fighting that I had seen in the Philippines. I was gratified, of course, at our victory—but was also conscious of a deep admiration for the courage of the enemy. They had made a stand worthy of the best traditions of a warrior race.” The Battle of Bud Bagsak was the last major engagement of America’s early20th century war in the Philippine Islands. However, sporadic hot spots of revolt continued to erupt, keeping American armed forces busy in the Philippines for the next forty-three years, until Japan invaded the islands in December 1941, thus ending America’s longest war.

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Poems from the American-Philippine War In Manila Bay On broad Manila Bay The Spanish cruisers lay; In the shelter of their forts Upon the shore. And they dared their foes to sail Through crashing iron hail Which guns from decks and battlements would pour. All the harbor ways were mined, And along the channel blind Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming Dreams of wrath. Yea! the fiery gates of hell Lay beneath the ocean’s swell, Like a thousand demons ambushed In the path. Fighting fierce Pacific gales, Lo! a little squadron sails, And the Stars and Stripes are floating From its spars. It is friendless and alone, Aids and allies it has none, But a dauntless chorus hails Its fearless tars:

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America at War “We’re ten thousand miles From home, Ocean’s waste and wave And foam Shut us from the land we love So far away. We have ne’er a friendly port For retreat as last resort, But we’ll beard the ships of Spain In their own bay. “They have mines beneath the sea, They have forts upon their lee, They have everything to aid them In the fray. But we’ll brave their hidden mines, And we’ll face their blazing lines. Yes! We’ll beard the ships of Spain In their own bay. “If we’re worsted in the fight, We shall perish in the right, No hand will wipe the dews Of death away. The wounded none will tend, For we’ve not a single friend, But we’ll beard the ships of Spain In their own bay. “No ironclads we sail, Only cruisers light and frail, With no armor plates to turn the shells away, All the battleships now steer In another hemisphere, But we’ll beard the ships of Spain In their own bay. “Ho! Remember now the Maine! Up and smite the ships of Spain! Let them not forget for years This first of May! Though hell blaze up from Ship and shore, Forward through the cannon’s roar, We’ll make the Spaniards pay.” As the first light of dawn Painted the east with gold, The Spaniards awakened to behold

Poems from the American-Philippine War Dewey’s ships with colors flying Steaming toward their shores. Then from the forts, bright tongues of flame, Roared like demons out of hell, As Dewey’s gunners answered Each splashing. Spanish shell. Oh! Gods! it was a sight, Till the smoke, as black as night, Hid the fire-belching ships From light of day. But, when it lifted from the tide, Smitten low was Spanish pride, And Dewey was the master of the bay. Where the awful conflict roared, And red blood in torrents poured, There the Stars and Stripes are waving High today. Dewey! Hero strong and grand! Shout his name throughout the land! For he sunk the ships of Spain in Manila Bay! —Charles Wadsworth, Jr. The Reg’lar Army Man He ain’t no gold-laced “Belvidere,” To sparkle in the sun. He don’t parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun. He ain’t no “pretty soldier boy,” So lovely, spick and span. He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Reg’lar Army man, The marchin’, parchin’, Pipe-clay starchin’, Reg’lar Army man. No State’ll call him “noble son,” He ain’t no ladies’ pet, But let a row start anyhow, They’ll send for him, you bet! He don’t cut any ice at all In fashion’s social plan. He gets the job to face a mob, The Reg’lar Army man, The millin’, drillin’, Made for killin’, Reg’lar Army man.

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America at War There ain’t no tears shed over him When he goes off to war. He gets no speech, nor prayerful ‘preach’ From Mayor or Governor. He just packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, To start the fight and start it right, The Reg’lar Army man, The ratlin’, battlin’, Colt or Gatlin’, Reg’lar Army man. He makes no fuss about the job, He don’t talk big or brave. He knows he’s in to fight and win Or help fill up a grave. He ain’t no mamma’s darlin’, but He does the best he can. And he’s the chap that wins the scrap, The Reg’lar Army man, The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Reg’lar Army man. —Joe Lincoln Irrepressible I am the swiftest thing on earth! I jump from continent to continent! I leap Across the deep, From Occident to Orient! I never rest, I never stop! I am busier than Fate! I am here and there, I am everywhere At the same time— In every land—in every clime— I am always busy, And men stop eating to consider me, I am the “War Rumor!” —anonymous A Soldier’s Dream I lay upon the battlefield With a poncho o’er my head

Poems from the American-Philippine War With a knapsack for a pillow And this is all my bed. The cuckoo sings out in the woods, The lizards round me creep, But they do not disturb me now For I am fast asleep. A picture floats before my eyes, Tis a cottage on the farm Where I was reared when but a boy, Protected from all harm There’s mother standing in the door, Her wayward son to greet. I clasp my arms about her neck, Our lips and kisses meet. Here’s father standing by her side. He greets me with a smile, And gives my hand a hearty shake To welcome home his child. Brothers, sisters, cluster round, And each their stories tell Of past events which I know not, All this I hear so well. I sit me down once more to feast, On hot cakes, pie and jam. No more to live on pork and beans, And drill for Uncle Sam. I dash about in childish glee, My heart with rapture beams. Then comes a “boom” and I awake. Alas, it was a dream. —P. W. Coe, Company M, Twentieth Kansas Volunteer Infantry Regiment My Travel Pay Disappointments I have had Been hoodwinked many a time Like tobacco tags I stoop to pick Thinking they were dimes. And many a fiver, I’ve thrown away To see a friendly bout. But ere round one had scarce begun, The cops put us to rout.

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America at War My pockets now are inside out A girl’s got all my cash. But Uncle Sam said don’t despair, He’ll fix it in a flash. So, to the Philippines I sailed One Spring day in May But thirty days on a rolling ship Don’t count for travel pay. The boundless ocean I had crossed While fed on rotten meat. I shared it with the salty blue To the fish it was a treat. I fought behind a muddy trench And put the foe to flight. But all the gold in haughty Spain Can never make this right. Uncle Sam, he paid the bill For my sojurn here By grabbing every bit of land That the Spaniards held so dear. But alas, the boys in blue Also paid their way When they learned to their chagrin There would be no travel pay. The time will come, when I once more To civilian life return But never in my breast again Will I feel that patriotic burn. The times might be quite tough at home With little there to eat But yet to know it’s my native land Will make my life so sweet. But I know that in Manila, There’ll be heavy snow in May Before I ship again to the Philippines To lose my travel pay. —Carl Vohl, Company B, Twenty-third U.S. Infantry Regiment To Colonel Baldwin We are proud of our old regiment Its history and its fame,

Poems from the American-Philippine War But another star has risen Adding luster to its name. It is the Twenty-seventh Whose famous story told Will go ringing down in history With the bravest of the bold. Amid the wilds of Mindanao. Where white men fear to tread And nature paints its splendor While natives starve for bread. We came with good intentions Doing everything that’s right But when they caught us unawares It was a deadly fight. As our endurance faded fast And everything seemed blue Our colonel Frank D. Baldwin Said he’d see what he could do. He parleyed with the datus His talk was straight and plain He had seen enough of battle And wanted no more slain. Now boys, while we pledge a toast To our regiment that fought so well, Give a cheer for those still living, And drop a tear for those who fell. —J. B. McMillen, Twenty-seventh U.S. Infantry Regiment A Colorado Soldier’s Lament I would like to write a sonnet, And put loving trimmin’s on it To the pretty girl I left behind. But she’s got another feller, And I simply want to tell her That her loss with bitter tears Will never blind me. Here in beautiful Manila, Far across the bounding billow, I have found another sugar plum. And although she is the color Of a fried New England cruller, It will never drain my pocketbook To dress her.

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America at War She’s got a figure like a goddess, And doesn’t try to hide it With the finery our Yankee girls so covet. And her mouth is a creation made for blissful osculation With the cutest nose on earth Above it. And her smile! Oh! Holy Moses! What a vision it discloses Of a rosy portal gemmed with grinders pearly. Oh! There are no flies upon her, And I fear that I’m a goner To the wiles of this Sweet Filipino girlie. So, the girl I left behind me Isn’t very apt to find me Shedding tears of disappointment If I lose her. For I’m really quite enraptured With the native belle I’ve captured, And she’s gone upon her Colorado Sooner. So, joyfully I’ll tell her, That her once best steady feller, Whom she thinks she’s drowned forever in the soup, Has been happily relovered, And quite easily discovered, That she is not the only chicken In the coop. —George Dickerman, Company C, First Colorado Volunteer Infantry Regiment Tribute to a Soldier I have got a wealthy neighbor Who is living without labor, Who has cash and bonds and stocks and stuff, And asks me out to dine. And I have another neighbor, Living by the hardest labor, Who’s got a Twentieth Kansas boy Out on the fighting line. There’s no fun in being weary, But if you should put the query, “Which of these two people’s places would you take?” Well, I opine, Not the man that’s got the money,

Poems from the American-Philippine War But the man that’s got the sonny, Got the snorting, rip-cavorting boy Down on the fighting line. —Eugene F. Ware The Fallen Hero He went to war in the morning, The roll of the drums could be heard But he paused at the gate with his mother For a kiss and a comforting word. He was full of dreams and ambitions That youth is so ready to weave, And proud of the clank of his sabre And the chevrons of gold on his sleeve. He returned from the war in the evening— The meadows were sprinkled with snow. The drums and the bugles were silent, And the steps of the soldier were slow. He was wrapped in the flag of his country When they laid him away in the mould, With the glittering stars of a captain Replacing the chevrons of gold. With the heroes who sleep on the hillside He lies with a flag at his head. But, blind with the years of her weeping, His mother still mourns for her dead. The soldier who falls in a battle May feel but a moment of pain, But the women who wait in the homesteads Must dwell with the ghosts of the slain —Minna Irving United In the rice fields and the marshes, ’Neath the burning tropic sky, Where so many brave have fallen And the helpless wounded lie, There the darling of his mother, Her support through earthly strife, Upon the nation’s holy altar Freely gave his fair young life. “To the charge” the bugle sounded, And the day was almost won When the dreaded Mauser struck him

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America at War And his race to life was run. But a comrade stops beside him And bending o’er him as he lay, Rests his head upon his bosom And waits to hear what he might say. “When you send the news to mother Tell her I have tried to be Such a soldier as was father In the days of ’63. Tell her that I did not falter.” And his voice is sinking low, “In that hour of dreadful carnage When we charged upon the foe. Tell her how my gallant comrades, From the North, South, East and West, Fought beneath the same old banner, Each as bravely as the rest. Tell her that the past is buried, Yankeeland and Dixie True Are united now forever ’Neath the old Red, White and Blue.” A smile now gathers, he is sleeping That last long earthly sleep. And his comrade, looking upward, Brushes teardrops from his cheeks. The bugle sounds, he cannot tarry, But murmurs as he turns away, “His father wore the Northern Blue, Mine wore the Southern Gray.” “Crack!” again the dreaded Mauser Speeds upon its wings of death, And the fair-haired Southern soldier Falls to earth with bated breath, Across the breast of his Northern brother As if locked in his embrace, Each has answered to the summons, And die together, face to face. At the breaking of the morning, When the cannon’s voice was still, And the rifle no longer echoed Through the marsh beyond the hill. Lying there as they had fallen Upon the soggy blood-red ground, By a squad of anxious comrades The two brave boys were found.

Poems from the American-Philippine War In the same grave they are sleeping, Not as their fathers slept of old, But as comrades, loving brothers, Soldiers, fearless, true and bold. For the lives of these two heroes Healed the wound their fathers made, So let the past be now forgotten, In the sacrifice they gave. Thus the graves around Manila Mark a turn in history’s tide, For the sons of North and Southland Lie there buried side by side. Their young lives were freely given, Not one tried to shirk or lag, That the world may know we are united For one country and one flag. —W. B. Emerson, Company C, Fifty-first Iowa Volunteer Infantry Regiment Who Will Care for Mother Now? Why am I so weak and weary? See how faint my heated breath. All around to me seems darkness, Tell me comrades, is this death? Ah! how well I know your answer, To my fate I meekly bow, If you’ll only tell me truly, Who will care for mother now? Who will comfort her in sorrow? Who will dry the fallen tear? Gently smooth her wrinkled forehead, Who will whisper words of cheer? Even now, I think I see her Kneeling, praying for her son. How can I leave her in this anguish, Who will care for mother now? Let this knapsack be my pillow, And my mantle be the sky. Hasten comrades, to the battle, I will like a soldier die. Soon with angels I’ll be marching, With bright laurels on my brow. For my country I have fallen, Who will care for mother now? —anonymous

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America at War Old Glory O’ flag that waves from sea to sea With sign and symbol rife, Thou showest peace must ever be A triumph over strife! The lesson on thy folds is writ In language all may read— No victory ever yet was won Save by the stripes that bleed. So, blazoned on thy valiant field, See we these emblems plain— The far white stars of peace beyond The crimson bars of pain. —anonymous

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Songs from the American-Philippine War Dewey, You’re a Dandy Yankee Dewey sailed his boats Down in Manila Bay, sir; He found the Spaniards on their floats, And blew them all away sir. [Chorus:] Yankee Dewey, keep it up; Oh Dewey, you’re a dandy! Yankee Dewey, keep it up; Yes, Dewey, you’re a dandy! Then Yankee Dewey sent us word, And this is what he said, sir: “We’ve sunk their gunboats, every one, And not a Yankee dead, sir!”—[Chorus] The Armored Cruiser Squadron Here’s to the cruisers of the fleet, So damned fast they’re hard to beat, The battleships they may be fine, But me for a cruiser every time. [Chorus:] Away, away, with sword and drum, Here we come, full of rum, Looking for someone to put on the bum, The Armored Cruiser Squadron!

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America at War They talk about the scores they make, And all the records they will break, But when the practice comes around, The battleships cannot be found.—[Chorus] We are the boys who shoot six-inch, Or anything else when we’re in a pinch; Gee, but the battleships are a cinch For the Armored Cruiser Squadron.—[Chorus] Sixteen battleships all in a line, In Guantanamo Bay look mighty fine, But me for a cruiser every time, In the Armored Cruiser Squadron.—[Chorus] Here’s to the cruiser days gone by, With a bottle of scotch and a jug of rye. We’ll hope to meet again bye and bye, In the Armored Cruiser Squadron.—[Chorus] The Old Destroyer Squadron The Admiral walks his quarterdeck, When he sees our ship he says, “By heck Here comes that ancient rambling wreck, From the old destroyer squadron!” The Skipper’s good for forty rounds, In port he rides behind the hounds, But on the ship he can’t be found, In the old destroyer squadron. Our young “Exec” with anxious brow, Walks the deck and says as how, The sleeveless undershirts must go, In the old destroyer squadron. Our Navigator’s full of tar, He shoots the truck light for a star, And wonders where the hell we are, In the old destroyer squadron. Our Gunnery Officer’s full of pluck, He aims the guns and trusts to luck, He knows damned well he’ll pass the buck, In the old destroyer squadron. Our Engineer’s our standing joke, At thirteen knots along we poke, And fill the ocean full of smoke, In the old destroyer squadron.

Songs from the American-Philippine War Our First Luff is very gruff, When coming to anchor he chucks a bluff, And hopes the Bo’s’n will do his stuff, In the old destroyer squadron. And when our ship has rung her knell, And dropped the hook at the gates of hell, The Skipper he’ll say, “Very well,” In the old destroyer squadron. Zamboanga Oh, the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga, Oh, the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga, Oh, the monkeys have no tails, They were bitten off by whales, Oh, the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga. [Chorus:] Oh, we won’t go back to Subic anymore, Oh, we won’t go back to Subic anymore, Oh, we won’t go back to Subic, Where they mix our wine with Tubic, Oh, we won’t go back to Subic anymore. Oh the carabao have no hair in Mindanao, Oh, the carabao have no hair in Mindanao, Oh, the carabao have no hair, And they run around quite bare, For the carabao have no hair in Mindanao.—[Chorus] Oh, the fishes wear no skirts in Iloilo, Oh, the fishes wear no skirts in Iloilo, Oh, the fishes wear no skirts, But they all have undershirts, Yes, they all have undershirts in Iloilo.—[Chorus] Oh, they grow potatoes small in Iloilo, Oh, they grow potatoes small in Iloilo, Oh, they grow potatoes small, And they eat them skins and all, Oh, they grow potatoes small in Iloilo.—[Chorus] Oh, the birdies have no feet in Mariveles, Oh, the birdies have no feet in Mariveles, Oh, the birdies have no feet, They were burnt off by the heat, Oh, the birdies have no feet in Mariveles.—[Chorus] Oh, the ladies wear no teddies in Manila, Oh, the ladies wear no teddies in Manila,

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America at War Oh, the ladies wear no teddies, They are always rough and ready, Oh, the ladies wear no teddies in Manila.—[Chorus] Oh, the men, they wear no pants in Baguio, Oh, the men, they wear no pants in Baguio, Oh, the men, they wear no pants, They’re afraid they’ll miss a chance, Oh, the men, they wear no pants in Baguio.—[Chorus] Oh, we’ll all go up to China in the Spring, Oh, we’ll all go up to China in the Spring, Oh, we’ll hop aboard a liner, I can think of nothing finer, Oh, we’ll all go up to China in the Spring.—[Chorus] Oh, we’ll all go down to Shanghai in the Fall, Oh, we’ll all go down to Shanghai in the Fall, Oh, when we all get down to Shanghai, The champagne corks will pop high, Oh, we’ll all go down to Shanghai in the Fall.—[Chorus] Oh, we lived ten thousand years in old Chefoo, Oh, we lived ten thousand years in old Chefoo, Oh, it didn’t smell like roses, And we had to hold our noses, When we lived ten thousand years in old Chefoo.—[Chorus] The Governor General or a Hobo Oh, I’ve been having a helluva time since I came to the Philippines. I’d rather drive a bobtail mule and live on pork and beans. They call him Governor General, he’s the hero of the day. But I have troubles of my own, and to myself I say— [Chorus:] Oh, is Mac the boss, or is Mac the tool? Is Mac the Governor General or a hobo? I’d like to know who’ll be boss of this show, Will it be Mac or Emilio Aguinaldo? The rebels up at old Tarlac, four men to every gun, I think the trouble is at an end, they think its just begun. My men go out to have a fight, the rebels fade away. I cable home, the troubles o’er, but to myself I say—[Chorus] Now, General MacArthur, I have no doubt, can run the whole concern. Alright, I’ll pack my trunk and go, and he can take his turn. But when the papers cuss him out, and lay him on the shelf, I only ask the privilege of saying to myself—[Chorus]

Bibliography PRIMARY MATERIAL The story of the Spanish-American War—and the subsequent involvement of American armed forces in the Philippine Islands—is told in the scrapbooks and shoe boxes containing letters, photographs, and newspaper and magazine clippings as accumulated by Helen Amelia Kreps. Among the memorabilia is also the handwritten diary of her husband, Captain Jacob Kreps, Twenty-second U.S. Infantry Regiment, who served in both Cuba and the Philippines.

HISTORICAL SOCIETIES California Historical Society Colorado Historical Society Idaho Historical Society Iowa Historical Society Kansas Historical Society Minnesota Historical Society Missouri Historical Society Montana Historical Society Nebraska Historical Society Nevada Historical Society New-York Historical Society North Dakota Historical Society Oregon Historical Society Pennsylvania Historical Society South Dakota Historical Society Utah Historical Society

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Washington Historical Society Wyoming Historical Society

ARCHIVAL MATERIAL Annual Reports of the Secretary of the Navy, 1898–1913 Annual Reports of the Secretary of War, 1898–1913 National Archives Princeton University Archives Stanford University Archives

NEWSPAPER ARTICLES Boston Globe Boston Herald Chicago Record Davenport Democrat (Iowa) El Imparcial Manila American Manila Cablenews Manila Freedom Manila Opinion Manila Times New York Times Omaha World Herald Pacific Commercial Advertiser Springfield Republican (Massachusetts) Topeka Capital

MAGAZINE ARTICLES AND BULLETINS The “Bounding Billow,” various issues Everybody’s Magazine, August 1901 Saturday Evening Post, July 19, 1958

UNPUBLISHED DIARIES, MEMOIRS, AND LETTERS All materials are from the author’s collection of diaries and letters with the exception of the John T. McCutcheon material used with permission of John T. McCutcheon, Jr.; the Lyman P. Edwards material used with permission of Joe Edwards; and the Evaristo de Montalvo material used with permission of Gertrudis de Montalvo Willett. John R. Brewer Walter R. Combs Lewis E. Cozzens Lyman P. Edwards

Bibliography

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William Hall Robert L. Hamilton William J. Henderson Jacob F. Kreps A. J. Luther A. L. McCoy John T. McCutcheon Evaristo de Montalvo Joseph Montgomery John Monzingo Hugo H. Svanberg Carl K. Vohl

BOOKS Baclagon, Uldarico S. Philippine Campaigns. Manila: Liwayway Publications, 1952. Bowe, John. With the Thirteenth Minnesota. Minneapolis, MN: A. B. Farnham Co., 1905. Buck, Beaumont B. Memories of Peace And War. San Antonio, TX: Naylor Co., 1935. Cerezo, Don Saturnino Martin. Under The Red And Gold: Being Notes and Recollections of the Siege Of Baler. Franklin Hudson: n.p., n.d. Cloman, Sydney A. Myself and a Few Moros. New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1923. Eager, Frank D. History of the Operations of the First Nebraska Infantry, U.S.V., in the Campaign in the Philippine Islands. N.p., n.d. Feuer, A. B. Combat Diary: Episodes from the History of the Twenty-second Regiment. Westport, CT: Praeger, 1991. Katzer, S. M. Retrospects And Confessions. Los Angeles, CA: Haynes Corp., 1932. Mabry, Charles R. The Utah Batteries: A History. Salt Lake City Daily Reporter, 1900. McCutcheon, John T. Drawn From Memory. New York: Bobbs-Merrill, 1950. Ochosa, Orlino A. The Tinio Brigade: Anti-American Resistance in the Ilocos Provinces, 1899–1901. Quezon City, Philippines: New Day Publishers, 1989. The Philippine Information Society. Luzon Campaign: From February to December 1899. Boston: n.p., n.d. Robinson, Albert G. The Philippines: The War and the People. New York: McClure, Phillips & Co., 1901. Scott, William Henry. Ilocano Responses to American Aggression, 1900–1901. Quezon City, Philippines: New Day Publishers, 1986. Young, Louis S. The Cruise of the U.S. Flagship “OLYMPIA,” 1895–1899. N.p., n.d.

MISCELLANEOUS PUBLICATIONS Correspondence Relating to the War with Spain, Including the Insurrection in the Philippine Islands and the China Relief Expedition, April 15, 1898, to July 30, 1902. Center of Military History, Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1902, reprint 1993. Official Report of Colonel John C. Loper, Fifty-first Regiment, Iowa Volunteer Infantry, Adjutant General of Iowa, Iowa Historical Society, 1899. Roster and Directory of United States Troops Serving in the Philippines Division: Stations of Troops and List of Garrisoned Towns, September, 1910. Headquarters, Fort Santiago, Manila.

Index Abas, 187 Abayan, Pedro, 201 Abra River, 162, 179, 181, 184 Abulug River, 167, 169 Aguinaldo, Emilio, 1, 2, 39, 44, 81–84, 88–90, 90, 109–10, 115–16, 119, 125, 131–32, 142–43, 147, 156–57, 173, 177–79, 194–95, 198–99, 201 Alfonso XII, 181–82, 184, 190–91 Anderson, Thomas, 69, 86, 110, 121, 123 Anderson, William, 63 Andre, M. Edouard, 74 Angat, 131 Angeles, 39 Apalit, 127, 143 Aparri, 169 Arayat, 147 USS Arayat, 207–8 Arguelles, Manuel, 142–43 Argus, 15 Artillery regiments, U.S.: Astor Battery, 66–72, 79–81, 86, 123; Third U.S. Artillery, 49, 51–52, 86, 93–94, 102, 110, 119, 121–123, 179; Sixth U.S. Artillery, 86, 94, 103, 106, 119, 126, 129, 173; Utah Artillery, 49, 52, 55–56, 62– 63, 69, 87, 89–95, 99, 110–13, 115– 19, 121–22, 125, 128, 134–37, 143–44

Astor, John Jacob, 65, 68 Atienza, Francisco, 212 Antimonan, 195 Augustin y Davila, Basilio, 39, 77 Baclod Cotta, 218 Bacolor, 39 Bacoor, 174–75 Bacoor Bay, 16, 25, 33, 35–36, 41, 43 Bagbag River, 131–32, 137–38 Balangiga, 201–5 Balbalasang, 187–89 Baldwin, Frank, 216–17 Baler, 148–49, 150, 152–53, 172, 196–97 Baler Bay, 148–49, 151, 195 Baliuag, 132 Ball, Colin H., 138 Ballance, John G., 147 USS Baltimore, 2, 3, 8, 10, 13, 15–18, 25, 31, 35–36, 75 Bangued, 158–60, 162–63, 171, 179, 183– 85, 187–91 Banna, 165 Barcelo, 75–76 Barcelona, Santiago, 198–200 Barrett, John, 74, 76 Barry, Edward B., 194–95, 197–98 Basay, 203–7

258 Basilan, 171, 229 Bates, John C., 227 Bayang, 222 Bearss, Hiram, 205 Bell, J. Franklin, 94, 119, 132, 144–45 Bergen, Martin, 191 Bernal, Jose, 142 Betron, Frank, 201–3 Bierer, Everhart, 49, 51 Bigaa, 118 Binidayan Cotta, 217 Binns, Charles, 133 Blanco, Ramon, 214 Boca Chica, 5 Boca Grande, 5 Bocaue, 115, 129, 132 Bookmiller, Edwin C., 203 Boshard, John, 94 USS Boston, 2, 3, 5–8, 10, 12–13, 15–19, 35, 75 Boston Globe, 83, 126 Boston Herald, 173, 194, 198, 202–4, 208–9 The “Bounding Billow,” 13, 26, 28–29, 31–32, 44 Boyd, 184 Bradford, Oscar, 184 Brewer, John R., 117, 119–20 Brisolese, Silvio, 155 Brown, David, 155, 171 Brown, W. C., 194–98 Bruce, William, 155, 158–59, 161–62, 164–65, 168, 171 Brumby, Thomas M., 76–77 Bryan, William Jennings, 158, 185 Bucay, 187, 189–91 Bucloc River, 187 Bud Bagsak, 229, 231–34, 236 Bud Dajo, 227–28 Bulacan, 1 Bullard, Robert L., 216 Bunbun, 231–32 Bunga Cotta, 232–34 Bunker, Leroy, 123 Burch, James, 63 Burgstaller, Vincent, 184 Bustamante, Pablo, 177 Bustos, 131–32

Index Cabanatuan, 154 Cadacan River, 207 Cailles, Juan, 81 Callao, 75–76 Caloocan, 90, 92–94, 98, 102–3, 118, 175 Calumpit, 127, 129, 132, 137, 139–40, 142–43 Campbell, John, 191 Camp Dewey, 52–53, 58, 70, 75, 78–79 Camp Kent, 54–55 Camp Merritt, 56 Camp Wheeler, 221 Can˜aco Bay, 24–26, 32–33 Candaba, 128 Cape Bolinao, 10 Cardarso, Don Luis, 34 Casiguran, 195, 197–98 Casiguran Bay, 195, 197 Castilla, 15–16, 19, 24–25, 30–35 Castro, Jose Gabino, 157 Catbalogan, 205 Cavalry troops, U.S.: Third U.S. Cavalry, 181, 184, 192; Fourth U.S. Cavalry, 86, 94, 103–4, 126, 129, 132, 143; Eighth U.S. Cavalry, 231; Eleventh U.S. Cavalry, 194; Fourteenth U.S. Cavalry, 221–22 Cavite, 13, 16–19, 21, 24, 26, 29–31, 33– 36, 39, 41–44, 58, 68–69, 73, 170, 205, 209 Cebu, 204 Cebu (gunboat), 149 Cerezo, Martin, 149 Chaffee, Adna, 201, 205, 209, 216 Chapman, John, 181 Charleston, 75, 93 Charlton, George C., 229, 231, 234–36 Chicago Record, 2, 7, 24, 35, 48, 73, 81, 96 China, 56 City of Para, 68 Clark, Charles, 186 Clark, John, 184 Cloman, Sydney, 227 Coffee, Captain, 182 Coffin, John W., 49 Coghlan, Joseph, 19

Index

259

Collins, James L., 229, 231–35 Colon, 56 Comba, Richard, 187 Combs, Walter R., 140 USS Concord, 2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 10, 15–16, 18–19, 35, 38, 75–76 Connell, Thomas W., 201, 203–4 Connolly, Patrick A., 174 Cooley, Walter, 192 Corbin, Henry C., 67 Corcuera, 224 Cornett, Edward, 138 Corregidor, 4–5, 11–13, 20–21, 25, 33, 37, 39–40, 58 Cosucos, 184 Covadonga, 121, 125, 127–28 Cozzens, Lewis E., 179 Cremins, Sergeant, 71 Crisologo, Doctor, 157 Crisologo, Sen˜ora, 157 Critchlow, John F., 54, 93, 110 Cuthbertson, Harry, 49–51, 61

Don Antonio de Ulloa, 15–16, 19, 24–25, 33, 34–35 Don Juan de Austria, 15–16, 25, 30, 32– 34, 43 Donovan, Joseph L., 174–75, 220 Downer, Alfred, 184 Dunn, Charles, 70 Dyer, Nehemiah, 17

Dagapan, 72, 156, 177 Daldalao, 187 Danglas, 161–64 Datu Amil, 229, 235 Datu Loco, 23 Davies, Frederick J., 221, 223 Davis, George W., 218 Davis, Samuel, 184 Daris, Thomas, 184 Davison, Peter W., 219, 221 Day, John H. A., 207–8 de Almonte, 212 de Castro, Bermudez, 212 Del Pilar, 178 de Montalvo, Evaristo, 54–56, 67 Del Rio, Captain, 32 de San Pedro, Agustin, 212 Dewey, George, 1, 3–5, 7, 12–14, 16–20, 22, 26, 36, 38–41, 44–45, 47, 49, 53, 73–74, 76, 79, 93, 102, 122, 142, 175, 177 Diario de Manila, 29, 31 Dillon, 151 Dolores, 186, 190–91

Febiger, George, 184 Feeney, Thomas, 191 Fehr, Louis, 60–61 Ferguson, Arthur, 138 Filipinas, 74 Finley, J.F., 52 Fisher, Ford, 127 Flake, 222–23 Flake Campbell, 219, 222 Fleming, Charles, 191 Florida, 121 Fort Malate, 41–42, 48, 52, 62, 68, 74– 76, 86 Funston, Frederick, 93–94, 114, 119, 138, 145, 194–95, 197–99

Eager, Frank, 133–34, 137 Edwards, Lyman P., 148, 150, 163, 171– 72 Egbert, Harry C., 113 Elcano, 15, 25 El Imparcial, 32 Elliot, Lieutenant, 7 Ellsworth, Jack, 171–72 Ely, Henry B., 65–67 Esmeralda, 96 Essham, Merton, 99 Eubanks, Sim, 191 Evans, Evan, 133 Everybody’s Magazine, 199

Gamlin, Adolph, 203 General Almonte, 221, 223 General Blanco, 224 General Lezo, 15–16, 25, 33 Gibbs, George W., 54, 90–91, 95, 110, 113 Gibbs, William J., 204 Gillmore, 151–52, 158, 172

260 Givens, Sergeant, 100–101 Goddard, Lieutenant, 188–89 Goodman, Wilhelm G., 90 Grande Island, 10 Grant, Frank, A., 54, 90, 92, 94, 110, 122–23, 125–26, 128 Gray, John, 184 Grayson, Willie, 89 Green, John F., 186 Greene, Francis, 48, 52–53, 58, 69 Gridley, Charles V., 16 Grove, William, 78 Grow, Orrin R., 54, 59–63 Guadalupe Ridge, 104–5, 122–23, 173– 74 Guadenez, Fermin, 42 Guam, 58, 198 Guiguinto, 118 Guiguinto River, 115 Hale, Irving, 87, 93–94, 101, 110–14, 134, 137, 143–44 Halford, Frank, 206 Hall, Parker, 113 Hall, Robert H., 110 Hall, William, 79 Hamilton, Robert, 216, 223 Hansen, Christian, 134 Harden, Edwin, 1–4, 73–74, 76 Hardy, Edward J., 132 Hare, Luther, 165–66, 172, 177, 179, 182 Harris, Robert L., 183 Harting, Edwin, 123 Hawkins, Alexander, 118 Hazzard, Oliver P. M., 194 Hazzard, Russell F., 194 Heaps, William, 191 Heard, Floyd, 184 Heidt, Grayson, 184 Henderson, William J., 84 Hernani, 205 Hill, Charles, 95 Hilliker, Frank, 186 Hitt, Parker, 219–24 Hobbs, Captain, 51–52 Hockett, Adrian, 133 Hodges, H. C., 195–98 Hodgsdon, Daniel B., 1, 3, 8, 10, 13

Index Holmes, M. E., 71 Honeyman, Elmer, 155, 171 Hong Kong, 1–6, 20, 32, 36, 96, 106, 214 Howze, Robert L., 163–69, 172 Huber, Harry, 156 Hudson, George, 60, 63 Hughes, Robert P., 201 Hume, John T., 133 Hunt, George A., 217 Hunter, William, 184 Iligan, 212, 214, 216, 219 Imus, 175 Indiana, 68 Infantry regiments, U.S. regular: First U.S. Infantry, 205, 207; Third U.S. Infantry, 129; Fourth U.S. Infantry, 175; Fifth U.S. Infantry, 185–87, 189–92; Ninth U.S. Infantry, 127, 173, 175, 201, 203–4; Twelfth U.S. Infantry, 173, 175; Thirteenth U.S. Infantry, 173, 177; Fourteenth U.S. Infantry, 62, 69, 86, 126, 173, 175; Seventeenth U.S. Infantry, 110, 127; Eighteenth U.S. Infantry, 69; Nineteenth U.S. Infantry, 228; Twentieth U.S. Infantry, 103, 106; Twenty-first U.S. Infantry, 173–76; Twenty-second U.S. Infantry, 103–9, 113, 129, 147, 220, 222; Twenty-third U.S. Infantry, 69, 79, 81, 84, 91, 101, 121, 222, 227; Twentyseventh U.S. Infantry, 216–17, 219; Twenty-eighth U.S. Infantry, 215 Infantry regiments, U.S. volunteer: First California Volunteer Infantry, 52, 61, 69, 77, 86, 121, 123; First Colorado Volunteer Infantry, 48, 52, 62, 69, 78, 87, 91–92, 95, 98, 173; First Idaho Volunteer Infantry, 86, 94, 126; First Montana Volunteer Infantry, 86, 93– 94, 96, 110, 118–19, 132, 143; First Nebraska Volunteer Infantry, 48–49, 69, 77, 87, 89–92, 110, 114, 119, 121, 132–38, 144, 146; First Nevada Volunteer Infantry, 155; First North Dakota Volunteer Infantry, 86, 126, 129; First South Dakota Volunteer Infantry, 87,

Index 92–93, 110, 112, 114, 118–19, 121, 123, 132, 136, 139, 143, 146; First Tennessee Volunteer Infantry, 91; First Washington Volunteer Infantry, 86, 103, 106–7, 122, 126; First Wyoming Volunteer Infantry, 86, 101, 110; Second Oregon Volunteer Infantry, 69, 77, 103, 106, 113, 147; Tenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, 49, 56, 59, 61, 69, 86, 92, 93, 110, 112, 117–19; Thirteenth Minnesota Volunteer Infantry, 71, 110; Twentieth Kansas Volunteer Infantry, 86, 92–94, 102, 110, 114–15, 118–19, 132, 138, 144, 145; Fifty-first Iowa Volunteer Infantry, 132–33, 136, 139, 143–44, 146; Twenty-ninth U.S. Volunteer Infantry, 179; Thirty-third U.S. Volunteer Infantry, 165, 177, 179, 181–82, 184–87, 189–92; Thirty-fourth U.S. Volunteer Infantry, 163, 179, 192, 194; Thirty-sixth U.S. Volunteer Infantry, 186–87, 189–90; Fortieth U.S. Volunteer Infantry, 194 Irene, 40 Isla de Cuba, 15–17, 25, 32–34 Isla de Luzon, 15–16, 25, 32–34 Isla de Mindanao, 15, 18, 31, 33 Jalajala Point, 126 James, Richard, 134 Jeffers, Lieutenant, 181 Jenkins, Paul, 183 Johnson, Andrew, 184 Johnson, Don, 112 Johnson, Henry, 107–8 Jolo City, 228–29, 231 Jones, Frank, 107 Jossman, Albert L., 218 Jusseaume, Ulric, 186 Kaiserin Augusta, 77 Katipunan, 1 Keller, Sergeant, 185 Kertz, John, 186 Kessler, Lieutenant, 49 King, Charles, 86, 123 Kneedy, Clarence, 137 Krause, Albert, 133

261 Krayenbuhl, Maurice, 49, 51 Kreps, Jacob F., 103–9, 131, 147 Kwonghoi, 75 Lacuna, General, 194 Laguna de Bay, 109, 126, 129, 173, 175 Laguna de Bay, 121–23, 125–28 La Independencia, 88 Lake Lanao, 212, 214, 216, 218–19, 222– 23 La Loma Church, 93 Lamberton, Benjamin, 17, 74–75 Lanang, 205–8 Lanang River, 205–7 Lanao, 223–24 Langford, F. W., 164, 171 Languasan Cotta, 232–33 Laoag, 164–65 La Paz, 163, 191 Las Pin˜as, 16, 18, 174 Lati Tribe, 229 Leahy, Cornelius, 186 Lawton, Henry, 110, 125–27, 129–32, 143, 146–47, 173–75, 177 Lieber, Francis, 209 Ligero, Benjamin, 198 Limos, 188 Lindenberg, Charles, 184 Lingayen Gulf, 156, 177 Liscum, 201 Low, John, 186 Lucban, Vicente, 201, 203, 205, 211 Lumbang, 127 Lusk, 191 Luther, A. J., 78 Lyles, De Witt, 206 Lysaught, John, 151 McCauley, Harry W., 83 McClintock, Guy, 184 McCormick, Louis P., 49 McCoy, Henry, 48, 63, 84, 110 USS McCulloch, 1–4, 7–8, 10, 12–13, 15– 16, 24, 35–38, 40, 73, 75 McCutcheon, John T., 1, 7, 16–17, 19, 34, 48, 73, 81, 96 McDonald, Frank, 166 McDonald, O. B. M., 151

262 McIlrath, John, 51 McKinley, William, 6, 185 McKinney, Carl F., 232–33 McPherson, Floyd, 184 McPherson, W. E., 195 Mabey, Charles R., 86, 89–95, 127–28 MacArthur, Arthur, 22–23, 58, 68–69, 71, 86, 93–94, 103, 109–11, 115–19, 132, 137, 147, 177, 192, 200, 204 USS Maine, 1 Malabang, 217 Malabon, 94, 113 Malacan˜ang, 77 Malinta, 112–13 Malolos, 82, 84, 88, 97, 102–3, 109, 110, 115–19, 129, 132, 134, 156 Manila, 15, 33, 148–49 Manila, 2–10, 16, 19, 21–22, 24–25, 29– 33, 35–36, 38–40, 42, 44–49, 51–53, 59, 63–64, 69, 71–72, 74–77, 79–89, 94, 96–98, 101, 109, 119, 121–22, 125, 127, 132, 137, 142, 148–51, 154– 55, 160, 165, 168, 171, 174, 190, 192, 194, 199–201, 209, 222 Manila Bay, 4, 5, 7, 12–13, 16, 19–20, 25, 32–33, 35–41, 45, 58, 68–69, 78, 110, 113, 156, 160, 170, 173–74, 200, 214 Manila-Dagupan Railroad, 72, 94, 102, 110, 113, 129, 137 Manila Freedom, 134 Manila Times, 5 Marahui, 214, 219, 221–24, 229 March, Peyton C., 65–66, 68–69, 71–72, 177–78, 187, 190 Marilao River, 114 Marina, Juan, 44 Mariquina, 91, 95, 97–98 Mariquina River, 123 Mariveles Bay, 37, 73 Markley, George F., 201 Martin, Charles, 184 Marquis del Duero, 15–16, 25, 32–33 Matunkup Cotta, 232–33 Maus, Marion P., 220–21 Mead, John, 132 Merritt, Edwin A., 143–44, 146

Index Merritt, Wesley, 32, 45, 49, 68, 74, 77, 79, 86 Meycauayan, 114 Miller, William, 184 Mills, Orville, 183 Mindanao, 212, 214–15, 225, 227 Mirs Bay, 3, 5, 7, 8, 10, 32 Mitchell, Burton J., 194, 198 Moncrief, Fred, 191 USS Monterey, 75 Montgomery, Joseph, 21–22 Montojoy y Pasaron, Patricio, 10, 16–17, 19–20, 31–32 Monzingo, John, 133, 135, 137, 139 Moore, Sterling, 133 Moore, William, 135 Morgado, Don Alonzo, 34 Morgon City, 68 Morong, 125, 175 Moro Scouts: 51st Company, 229, 233, 235; 52nd Company, 231, 233, 235 Morris, Courtney, 186 Morris, Sergeant, 184 Morrissey, C. A., 151 Moses, Cassius, 78, 99–100, 173 Mota, Don Jose, 148 Mount Balutictic, 187 Mount Ticmo, 187 Moylan, Patrick, 231, 233–34 Mulford, Henry, 132, 137 Mullay, William H., 174 Murphy, John, 62 Nanshan, 3, 7–8, 10, 12, 15–16 Napindan, 121, 125–27 Natividad, Benito, 161 Naylor, Raymond C., 54, 110, 112 Neff, James, 99, 101 Newell, Isaac, 105–6 Newport, 68 Newton, Harry W., 194 USS New York, 205 New York Herald, 2, 73 New York Journal, 5, 73 New York World, 2 Nichols, Taylor A., 231, 233 Nickle, William, 184 Noriel, Mariano, 41–42

Index Norzagaray, 129, 131 Novaliches, 112, 118, 129–30 Nun˜ez, Don Jose, 33 Nygard, E. J., 151 Oatu Bay, 222–23 O’Brien, John, 155, 158–63, 165, 168, 171 O’Brien, Michael J., 189 Oceania, 121, 127 Oeste, 121, 126–27 O’Hara, James, 51–52 Ohio, 68 USS Olympia, 2–8, 10, 13, 15–18, 22, 24, 30, 35–36, 38, 73–77 O’Ryan, Duffy, 21–23 Otis, Elwell, 72, 82, 86, 89, 93, 121, 127, 129, 131, 142, 147, 177, 179 Otis, Harrison Gray, 86, 95, 110, 114 Ovenshine, Samuel, 86, 173–74 Paco, 96 Padesky, Albert, 186 Paete, 127 Pagsanjan, 126 Pagsanjan River, 125 Palanan, 194, 199–200 Palanan Bay, 197 Pandan, 179 Pandapatan Cotta, 217 Pantar, 219 Pantikian, 188 Pantar, 219 Paran˜aque, 36, 41, 173–74 Parke, J. S., 219 Pasay, 49, 176 Pasig, 105–6, 123, 125 Pasig River, 35, 37–38, 45–46, 75, 77, 84, 86–87, 94, 96–97, 103, 105, 108, 110, 121, 123, 125–26, 164, 173 Paterno, Pedro, 131 Pateros, 106, 123, 125 Pender, John, 115 Penn, Julius, 163, 172 Pershing, John J., 218, 228–29, 231–36 Peterson, Edwin, 134 USS Petrel, 2, 3, 5–6, 8, 10, 15–16, 18– 19, 24, 35, 75

263 Philippine Scouts: 21st Company, 231; 24th Company, 231, 235; 25th Company, 231; 29th Company, 231, 233; 40th Company, 231–32 Pickering, Captain, 205–6 Pidigan, 179, 183–86 Pilar, 186 Pineda, 41–42 USS Pittsburgh, 203 Placidio, Hilario, 199–200 Polillo Island, 195 Porter, David, 205–8 Pratt, E. Spencer, 1 USS Princeton, 169–70 Puhagan Cotta, 232–34 Puyacabao Cotta, 232–33 Quimpal, 189 Quingua, 132, 134–35 USS Raleigh, 2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 10, 15–16, 18– 19, 26, 35, 75 Ramain, 219 Ramain River, 219 Ramsey, Norman, 138 Randolph, Benjamin, 121–22 Reina Cristina, 15–17, 19–20, 24–25, 30– 35 Reinhardt, William, 106 Relief, 220, 222 Remey, George C., 194 Rey, Ramon, 156 Rio Grande de Pampanga River, 127–29, 138 Roberts, Sam, 186 Roberts, William, 219 Rodiroso, Manuel, 42 Rogers, W. P., 106 Roldan, Don Jesus, 149 Roosevelt, Theodore, 210 Ross, Charles, 191 Rucker, Kyle, 99–101 Russell, Frank G., 164 Salegseg, 188–89 Saltan River, 188–89 Samar Is., 201–5, 208, 211 Sampaloc, 90–91

264 San Fabian, 177 San Felipe, 122 San Fernando, 97, 143–44, 146 San Francisco del Monte, 110–11 San Gregorio, 181 Sangley Point, 16, 18, 24, 31–32 San Ildefonso, 146 San Isidro, 155 San Jacinto, 177 San Jose, 129–30 San Juan del Monte Bridge, 89–91 San Juan River, 87, 90, 111 San Luis, 127–28 San Mateo River, 97–98 San Miguel, 146–47 San Pedro Macati, 96, 103, 121, 173, 176 San Quintin, 179, 182–84 San Rafael, 131 San Roque, 36 Santa, 190 Santa Ana, 121–22 Santa Cruz, 125–26 Santo Tomas, 143–46 Sawtelle, C. G., 68–69, 71 Sayles, John, 231 Schomers, Peter, 184 Schurman, Jacob G., 142 Schwartz, Charles, 134 Schwed, Fred, 184 Scott, E. D., 129 Scott, Hugh L., 228 Scott, Oliver, 61 Scott, Walter S., 217 Seaman, George, 90, 92–95, 113 Segerstrom, Edwin, 97 Segismundo, Cecilio, 194 Segovia, Lazaro, 195, 198–200 Senator, 56, 72 Seymour, Walter A., 71 Shaw, George C., 232–33 Siasi, Island, 229 Sillman, R. H., 71 Sime, H. T., 123 Singalong, 69–70, 72 Singapore, 1, 33 Siniloan, 127 Sissons, L. E., 135 Slim, 206, 209

Index Smith, Harry, 133 Smith, Jacob H., 205, 207, 209–10 Smith, James, 52, 61, 123 Smith, William C., 91 Smoke, 206 Snyder, Harry, 60–61 Sojoton, 205–6 Sojoton River, 206–7 USS Solace, 170–71 Sonnichsen, Albert, 155, 171 Souther, Henry, 95 Sperry, Charles S., 151, 170 Springfield Republican, 204 Sprouse, Samuel, 189 Standley, W. H., 151 Stephens, Dan, 118 Sterling, William, 48 Stewart, John, 99 Stewart, Robert, 60 Stickney, Joseph, 2, 3, 7, 17–18 Stoner, Lee, 135 Stotsenburg, John, 90–91, 114, 132, 134– 35 Subic Bay, 10, 20, 32–33 Sultan of Bayang, 217 Sultan of Jolo, 216, 227 Sultan of Oatu, 222–23 Sultan of Ramain, 219 Summers, Owen, 129, 131–32, 147 Suribao River, 206

Tacloban, 205, 207–8 Taguig, 96, 106–7, 109, 125–26 Talalang, 188–89 Taraca, 220–22 Taraca River, 220–21 Tayum, 181, 186, 189, 190–91 Thomas, Bert, 133 Tilden, Samuel, 137 Tinio Brigade, 177–79 Tinio, Manuel, 160–61, 168, 179 Tirad Pass, 178 Todd, Eugene, 183 Toiza, John, 123 Topeka Capital, 138 Treaty of Paris, 89 Tucker, Thomas, 184

Index Tuliahan River, 112–13 Turnbull, Ship Constructor, 222 Upham, F. B., 4 Valencia, 68 Van Natta, Thomas F., 233–34 Van Way, Charles, 181–84 Vaudoit, Paul, 152–53 Velasco, 15–16, 25, 33 Venville, D. G. A., 152–53, 196 Vickers, Thomas, A., 218 USS Vicksburg, 194–200 Victor, 207, 209 Vigan, 156–58, 162, 170–71, 179, 183– 86, 189–92 Villa, 198–99 Villamor, 179, 183 Vogler, John, 59 von Diederichs, Otto, 39–40 Wachs, Adam, 184 Wadsworth, Andrew, 135 Wake Island, 57 Walker, Asa, 18 Waller, Littleton, W. T., 205–11 Wardlaw, Geo, 92 Warner, Elwood, 191 Washington Post, 228 Washington Transcript, 225 Watson, Selman, 92, 98 Watterson, James, 68–69, 71

265 Webb, William C., 54, 89–91, 95, 125, 127 Wedgewood, Edgar H., 54, 91–92, 128 Weisenburger, John, 106, 126 Weithorn, William, 191 Wells, Heber M., 54 Weyler, 205 Wheaton, Loyd, 96–97, 103–10, 123, 137, 143–45, 173–77, 192 Wheeler, David, 221 Williams, Alexander, 207 Williams, Kenneth, 206–9 Williams, Oscar F., 7 Wilson, William, 184 Winkler, Joseph, 56–60 Wood, Leonard, 220, 227–28 Woodruff, John, 138 Wright, 229, 231 Wright, Marcus, 114 Wygant, Henry, 222–23 USS Yorktown, 150–51, 153, 170–72 Young, Harry A., 91 Young, John G., 90 Young, Louis S., 13, 16, 18–19, 26 Young, Richard W., 54, 91–92, 112, 114– 116 Young, Samuel B. M., 179, 186, 192 Young, William, 131–32, 146–47 Zafiro, 3, 7–8, 10, 12, 15–16, 75 Zamboanga, 212, 214–15 Zapote River, 174–75 Zealandia, 56–58

About the Author A. B. FEUER is a retired newspaper and magazine journalist. He is a U. S. Navy veteran of World War II.