Ten Days at Veracruz
By Captain Paul B. Ryan, U. S. Navy (Retired)
In April 1914, Hampton Roads was filled only partially with ships of the Atlantic Fleet. Seven months before, Rear Admiral Charles J. Badger, the Fleet Commander, on instructions from Washington, had ordered his 1st and 4th divisions to the Gulf Coast, ostensibly to protect American interests.
For the preceding year, President Woodrow Wilson had viewed the regime of President Victoriano Huerta with increasing distaste, being convinced that political tranquility and democracy would never come to Mexico until that “desperate brute” was removed. Day by day, Wilson became more determined to take some sort of action—of what type and dimension he was not yet sure.
While Wilson viewed U. S. troubles with Mexico in terms of a personal vendetta with a tyrant, Huerta, other powerful figures like Senator Henry Cabot Lodge pressed for armed intervention to protect American investments and citizens.
Huerta, however, posed a special problem. There were 50,000 Americans in Mexico with over $1 billion invested in oil, mines, and other industries. Fighting between Huerta’s army and rebel forces led by Venustiano Carranza and Francisco (Pancho) Villa was causing grave losses in lives and dollars. In a two-year period, more than 70 Americans had died violent deaths in Mexico.
Generally speaking, U. S. businessmen wanted an end to disorder; and they believed that Huerta (despot or not) was the best man to achieve it. Moreover, many Americans nursed doubts as to the ability of Carranza or Villa to bring peace and justice to Mexico.
While such pragmatic reasoning might satisfy American oil magnates, it was not enough for the professorial Wilson who assured a British Foreign Office official that he was “going to teach South American republics (especially Mexico) to elect good men.” So, with a U. S. diplomatic policy rooted in moralistic rationalizing, events escalated toward a showdown at the port city of Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico.
While Wilson desperately wished to topple Huerta, he shuddered at the thought of using violence to do it. Still, a delay in his decision to act only brought a spate of Republican barbs aimed at his policy of “deadly drifting” while Americans were being killed by Mexican bullets.
To silence such criticism, Wilson, in October 1913, had ordered Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels to send a naval squadron to the Mexican Gulf Coast. Rear Admiral Badger had designated Rear Admiral Frank Fletcher to establish a naval presence at Tampico in the north and Veracruz, further south.
Unfortunately, by April 1914, the Tampico squadron, after seven months of swinging at anchor, found itself embroiled in a dispute with the Mexican Army. The affair was triggered by Mexican guards who suddenly took into custody the crew of a U. S. naval whaleboat for alleged violation of security rules. (The whaleboat unknowingly had ventured into a restricted area.) What incensed the squadron commander, Rear Admiral Henry T. Mayo, was the fact that the Mexicans had taken two sailors out of the whaleboat, which, by flying the colors, had given the craft the same status as U. S. territory.
Reasoning that ignorance was no excuse for a flagrant breach of international law, Mayo demanded an apology and a 21-gun salute as an expression of respect. The Mexicans expressed regret, but answered that a 21-gun salute should be returned by the U. S. Navy.
Obsessed with the need for “righteous government” in Mexico, President Wilson seized the Tampico incident as a weapon to pressure Huerta into quitting office. Ignoring a proposal from Admiral Fletcher that he (Fletcher) be authorized to travel to Mexico City to resolve the matter, Wilson asked for and received from Congress the authority to use arms—not against the Mexican people—but against Huerta and his supporters. The President then directed that Daniels order Admiral Badger to proceed with his Norfolk force to Tampico.
The Fleet Commander was ready. Apprised by senior officers at the Navy Department that something was up, Badger was underway in hours. By sunset, his force of seven new battleships, four Marine-laden transports, cruisers, and destroyers had cleared the channel. During the day, the Naval Base duty office continued to notify wives and families that the ships had departed. Most of the Navy wives were not surprised.
April continued to be an unlucky month for Wilson, who found himself living from crisis to crisis. Sobering news came on the 18th when U. S. Consul William Canada at Veracruz cabled the State Department of the impending arrival of a steamer loaded with arms for Huerta. Galvanized into action, the President asked the Congress for a resolution approving, intervention by force in Mexico. While the Senate debated, the issue was overtaken by events, specifically, the so-called Pajama Conference.
About 1:00 a.m. on 21 April, Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan was wakened by the State Department duty officer informing him that the German steamer Ypiranga, out of Hamburg, was scheduled to arrive at Veracruz that very morning to off-load three freight cars of munitions. Bryan immediately called the President, who arranged for Navy Secretary Josephus Daniels and his private secretary, Joseph Tumulty, to be connected into a conference call.
After some discussion, all agreed that the munitions (200 machine guns plus 15 million rounds of ammunition) should not fall into Huerta’s hands. That decision having been made, Wilson told Daniels to “take Veracruz at once.”
Hurrying over to the State, War, and Navy building, the Secretary met with senior officers to draft a message to Admiral Fletcher. It read: “Seize the Customs House. Do not permit war supplies to reach Huerta or any other party.”
In the heady excitement of manipulating national power, no one at the Pajama Conference realized that this latest message placed Admiral Fletcher in an awkward position. In effect, he was directed to interfere with a German ship engaged in peaceful commerce. In effect, also, the United States was establishing a blockade of Veracruz. Throughout the Veracruz operation, Fletcher, as officer-in-tactical-command, operated under instructions that never would have passed a War College critique for they were a contradiction in terms. Briefly, Fletcher was called upon to:
► Protect all Americans to the utmost of his ability;
► Land troops and seize a Mexican city;
► Avoid harm to Mexican nationals if possible;
► Stop a German merchant ship from delivering her cargo to a Mexican port.
To accomplish any one of the four meant that Fletcher either would have to do damage to the other tasks or, at least, violate international law. That he succeeded as well as he did must be viewed as a tribute to his good judgment and restraint.
In 1914, Veracruz was a bustling city of 45,000, including several thousand Americans. At the harbor entrance stood an ancient Spanish fortress, San Juan de Ulua. Near the waterfront were the Naval Academy, barracks, government and commercial buildings, warehouses, and shops. Beyond, lay the residential districts, and then a vast stretch of sand dunes. To deny Huerta the use of this principal seaport and its fiscal collections, by a peaceful occupation, would ensure the fall of the tyrant and bring peace to Mexico—or so Wilson thought.
Admiral Fletcher on the flag bridge of the USS Florida (BB-30) at Veracruz appreciated the significance of taking the city. But, on the morning of 21 April, he was not sure that weather conditions were fight for an extended landing operation. Overcast skies, a choppy sea, and brisk winds were all too evident.
But, shortly before 11:00 a.m., deciding that the choice had to be made immediately, Fletcher ordered, “Land the landing force.”
The plan called for the troops to fan out to designated sections and to occupy key points, such as the customs house and the railway station. In an hour several hundred men were ashore. Right up to noontime bluejackets and Marines continued to swarm onto the waterfront piers to the mystification of Mexican civilians who had no inkling of trouble with the United States. (Huerta’s censorship of the Mexican press was complete, resulting in a blackout of news stories on Wilson’s moves.)
However, after the Veracruzanos had recovered from their initial surprise, sniper fire confirmed Fletcher’s worst fear: The landing was not unopposed.
Contrary to Wilson’s expectations, Mexicans did not welcome the Americans as liberators freeing them from despotism. It is true that the Huerta government had ordered General Gustavo Maass, Military Commandant of Veracruz, to pull out his 1,000 troops and proceed to Tejeria, 10 miles inland from the city, but not before Maass had freed and armed scores of prisoners from the army prison, La Galera.
These worthies, still in prison garb, immediately took to the rooftops to join Mexican naval cadets and some civilians in repelling the invaders.
Maass’ decision to use convicts was disastrous because it automatically ensured a lack of fire-discipline and troop control. The ensuing anarchy was not surprising: indiscriminate firing on peaceful civilians, looting, drunkenness, robbery of passersby, and constant sniping. Worse, responsible Veracruz civil officials had no way of guaranteeing that any agreed-upon truce would be observed.
Meanwhile, en route to the trouble spot, the New Jersey (BB-16) was steaming in column open order at 12 knots; the flagship Arkansas (BB-33) in the van. On 21 April, at 8:00 a.m., the formation was some 250 miles from its destination. Expecting trouble, Badger had ordered all five battleships to muster and inspect their landing forces with full packs and equipment, including small field-pieces.
The New Jersey’s battalion wore a non-regulation but practical uniform. In an effort to appear less conspicuous, the 322 bluejackets had steeped their whites in coffee, achieving a brownish shade that would blend in with the Mexican soil and sand dunes. The ship’s officers, judging that their stiff collars and white or blue service uniforms were hardly suited for combat, had opted for Marine khaki and Stetson campaign hats, probably to the envy of the other ships’ officers—all of whom wore either blues or whites. The Arkansas battalion had also dyed their white uniforms, but had chosen to use iodine instead of coffee. Well satisfied with the tan color of their battle-dress, the men, after a few hours in the hot sun, were amazed to see their uniforms change to a flaming red hue. The salty comments directed at them by sailors from other ships did little to relieve their embarrassment.
Having received reports from all ships that their landing forces were ready, Admiral Badger turned to read the radio traffic, which was increasing in volume.
During the day he learned of Fletcher’s landing and the casualties suffered. Following orders, he continued on to Tampico, at 12 knots, but at 5:00 p.m. came the expected message from the Navy Department: proceed to Veracruz at best possible speed. The flag-bridge signalmen quickly bent on and executed Speed 16 while watertenders in the engineering spaces cut in additional boilers. Veracruz lay 100 miles ahead.
Flag radio in the Arkansas (with the other ships listening in) now received a proposal from Fletcher that Badger complete the landing of his infantry battalions and artillery by dawn, as U. S. forces ashore were under fire from rifle and artillery. Already, Fletcher reported, he had lost four men. He concluded by saying that he would board the Arkansas on arrival to confer with the Fleet Commander.
At 2:27 a.m., 22 April, the New Jersey anchored, put all boats in the water, and disembarked the battalion. One hour later the boats received orders to shove off for the beach. Save for sporadic rifle fire heard in the distance, it was an uneventful affair. Petty officers, who had been in naval shore operations in China in 1900 and in the Philippine Insurrection against Aguinaldo, steadied the young seamen who made up the majority of the force.
The New Jersey’s force comprised four companies and a staff commanded by Lieutenant Frederick Valette McNair, Academy class of ’03. His adjutant was Ensign Clifford E. Van Hook ’09, who years later, along with Ensigns Elliott Buckmaster, ’12, and Sherman S. Kennedy, ’09, would attain flag rank. A substantial number of the other junior officers would serve as captains in World War II.
Once ashore, Lieutenant McNair reported to the commander, 2nd Seaman Regiment, Captain Edwin A. Anderson. Anderson, normally the commanding officer of the New Hampshire (BB-25) had orders to advance toward the west end of the city. Thence, he was to continue to the sand dunes and set up a barrier to oppose any Mexican reinforcements bent on aiding Veracruz.
At about 8:00 a.m., Anderson’s column marched straight into strong rifle and artillery fire, apparently coming from the Mexican Naval Academy and Artillery Barracks. The column fell back in some disorder.
Ensign F. E. Dennett, class of ’11, was the officer-of-the-deck on board the New Jersey, and logged what was happening. Intermittent firing from rifles, machine guns, and field pieces could be heard. Mexican snipers were visible on the rooftops. At 8:50 a.m., as the intensity of firing increased, Captain J. L. Jayne went to General Quarters and requested permission of the Flag to enfilade the enemy artillery. Permission was refused.
Meanwhile, Admiral Fletcher ordered the scout cruiser Chester (CL-1) to fire over the heads of U. S. forces and knock out the second story of the Naval Academy. As Dennett noted, “The Naval Academy building received every shot and was badly damaged.” Ashore, New Jersey men moved into the building to find an empty wreck.
Somewhat incongruously, naval protocol continued to be observed despite the firing and general hubbub. Dennett duly noted that the “Florida fired a salute of 13 guns [for Rear Admiral Badger] and [this was] returned by Arkansas.” Then the Spanish cruiser Carlos V fired a salute, U. S. ensign at the fore, which honor was returned by the Arkansas. In the interim, Lieutenant McNair had regrouped his men and prepared to conduct a sweep of his assigned sector.
What of the German ship Ypiranga? Confirming the U. S. consul’s report, the steamer arrived off the breakwater at 2:00 p.m. to be met by a boarding officer, Lieutenant Lamar Leahy, ’03. To the German skipper’s astonishment, the lieutenant told him that his ship would not be allowed to depart without off-loading munitions. Letting go his anchor in the outer harbor, the skipper fired off an angry cable to his government.
Hours later, the German Embassy in Washington echoed with the sounds of Teutonic expletives. Calling for his car, the Ambassador, Count von Bernstorff, was driven to the State Department where he coldly notified a startled Bryan that such a breach of international law could not be accepted by the Imperial German government. It was customary, announced von Bernstorff in biting tones, that a naval blockade could be established only after formal notification to interested governments.
Hurriedly consulting with his legal advisor and Foreign Service officers, Bryan was assured that von Bernstorff indeed was correct. Now it was Bryan’s turn to call for his car, make his way to the German Embassy, and offer profuse apologies. Looking for a convenient escape hatch, the stricken Bryan attributed the gaffe to Rear Admiral Fletcher who had “exceeded his instructions.” He further informed the Ambassador that Fletcher had been directed to offer his personal apologies to the Ypiranga’s captain. Naturally, he added, the ship was free to depart Veracruz.
Bryan then rushed off to the White House to tell a tight-lipped Wilson of this latest uproar. Calling in Navy Secretary Daniels, the President instructed him to tell Fletcher to extend the apology. In far off Veracruz, the Admiral and his Staff, reading Daniels’ priority dispatch, may be forgiven if they had less than kind thoughts toward Washington. As for the Ypiranga, she quietly upped anchor and sailed for Puerta Mexico, where she discharged her cargo—for Huerta’s forces.
Meanwhile, ashore with the New Jersey battalion, Lieutenant McNair’s orders were to search all houses and buildings for suspected snipers. Although at 3:00 p.m. on 22 April the waterfront was quiet, the city streets were dangerous. Bluejackets and Marines continued to be targets for the rooftop snipers, making McNair’s patrols understandably impatient with those Mexicans whose only fault may have been that they were hiding from fear or that they could not speak English.
But having swept through their sector, the men now headed for the sand dunes to set up picket lines southwest of the city and two miles distant from the waterfront. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that General Maass, now bivouacked 10 miles away, would advance on the city. McNair noted that, fortunately, the USS Mississippi (BB-23) and the scout cruiser Birmingham (CL-2) were arriving with four “hydro aeroplanes” which would perform “aerial scouting.”
The battalion staff officers (Ensigns Van Hook, Elder, and Harris), scanning the terrain for favorable spots, soon had the men digging small trenches and setting up a defense system. But the seamen-infantrymen never saw a sign of the enemy. General Maass obeyed orders and remained at Tejeria. Perhaps, in view of the large force of 5,800 Americans—3,300 naval and 2,500 Marine officers and men—his decision was wise.
One of the Mississippi’s two Curtiss “hydro aeroplanes” was hoisted aboard the battleship. Two more of these “aerial scouts” were carried in the Birmingham. The two aviation detachments were commanded, respectively, by Lieutenants J. H. Towers and P. N. L. Bellinger, who posed with his two aircraft at the naval aviation camp ashore at Veracruz.
After a week ashore as combat infantrymen, the 19 khaki-clad officers and the 322 bluejackets in their coffee-dyed whites marched back to board the New Jersey.
Back in Veracruz, Admiral Fletcher was having difficulty in locating Mexican officials to negotiate a truce agreement. Like Napoleon Bonaparte at Moscow, he was master of a city which no one would formally surrender. However, by the evening of 25 April, certain key men were persuaded to resume their offices and help to establish normalcy.
By 28 April, quiet had returned and the New Jersey battalion, stranded in the sand dunes, began to think of hot baths and clean uniforms. One company, the 2nd, was allowed to return to the ship for four hours to clean up and reprovision. They returned with fresh clothing for the others. Discipline was maintained in all matters, one man being returned to the ship in partial disgrace as “undesirable for shore duty, having accidentally fired a loaded rifle.”
Relief was at hand as Ensign Dennett, again on watch as OOD, reported U. S. Army transports headed for Veracruz. Loaded with Brigadier General Frederick Funston’s troops and escorted by the torpedoboat destroyers (TBDs) Flusser, Reid, Preston, and Batch, the convoy was welcomed with cheers from Badger’s ships.
The end was not far away. The New Jersey battalion was returned to the ship, ordered to get haircuts, and prepare for a turnover ceremony in the Plaza. There, on 30 April, Brigadier General Funston’s brigade formally relieved the Navy as the pacification force.
The Army would remain for over a year, clean up the city, witness in July the fall of Huerta’s government and the assumption of power by Carranza.
In Washington, Wilson may have had second thoughts on this venture into power politics. Chagrined by the death of 17 bluejackets and more than 100 Mexicans—a consequence he did not anticipate since, as he announced, he had only the salvation of the Mexican people at heart—Wilson looked for a way out. Fortunately, one month later, representatives from Argentina, Brazil, and Chile offered a plan to settle the dispute. Even though President Carranza turned it down, the publicity served to advertise Wilson’s good intentions and the matter faded away.
Besides, an assassination in the Balkan city of Sarajevo soon would bring on a train of events having more import to the world than Veracruz.
The political aspects of the Veracruz affair aside, how did the Navy perform on the expedition? For one thing, Admiral Fletcher was very pleased with his naval aviation unit. The Mississippi’s two “hydro aeroplanes” were in the air on the 25th and later were joined by two from the Birmingham. Their reconnaissance reports of no large troop movements did much to ease the Admiral’s mind as to the safety of the city. The two units commanded respectively by Lieutenant Patrick N. L. Bellinger and Lieutenant John H. Towers were the first planes to be used by the Navy in a combat operational situation.
Second, logistic support appeared excellent. The collier Orion not only coaled ships but also provided fresh and dry provisions including “refrigerated meat.” Such service to the fleet was a far cry from the U. S. naval landing at Veracruz in 1848 when Commodore David Conner complained bitterly and with reason, of poor logistic support.
Third, communications were poor, the need for improved wireless telegraphy (or radio as it was beginning to be termed) being painfully apparent. In 1914, fleet radio had a maximum range of 300 miles. Consequently, Secretary Daniels and Admiral Fletcher had to rely heavily on the shore telegraph system between Washington and Veracruz. Occasionally, with optimum weather conditions, Fletcher’s ship radios could raise Naval Radio, Key West—subject, of course, to static and numerous garbles. When the Navy realized that the elapsed time for a message to travel from Washington to Veracruz varied from three to 13 hours, the upshot was a stepped-up development program for naval radio.
Had it not been for the communication deficiencies uncovered by the Veracruz incident, naval radio in World War I might not have reached the improved effectiveness it did. And there was a further spin-off; the radio boom of the 1920s stemmed in part from the fact that most home radio sets were adaptations of U. S. naval radio equipment.
Last, while house-to-house fighting was not a specialty normally expected of naval men, it is plain that the traditional resourcefulness and adaptability of the Yankee seaman was not lacking. President Wilson and Secretary Daniels recognized individual valor by awarding the Medal of Honor to 37 officers and 18 enlisted men. (Recall that this was in the days before other awards had been established.) Lieutenant McNair was one of the recipients.
For the junior officers of the New Jersey steaming back to Norfolk, it had been a sobering experience.
It would be but one of many more. Ahead lay World War I, revolutions in Haiti, Santo Domingo, and Nicaragua, duty in the Yangtse patrol in China, and World War II. But for the moment their thoughts probably were on the pleasant life in Norfolk just ahead.
As for Rear Admiral Fletcher, he later became Commander of the Atlantic Fleet. He was succeeded by his old colleague Admiral Henry Mayo.
Nearly all of the participants are gone now, but Clifford Van Hook, now a retired admiral residing quietly in Menlo Park, California, is not likely ever to forget them—or the time when he was an ensign during ten days at Veracruz.
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Captain Ryan is a graduate of the Naval Academy with the Class of 1936 and presently is Head, Historical Branch, Division of Naval History in Washington. He has served in submarines, battleships, cruisers, and carriers. His commands afloat include the destroyer Agerholm, the supply ship Alstede, and the attack transport, Union. Ashore, he has served in ONI, as Naval Attaché, Havana, Cuba, and later in a similar post in Ottawa, Canada. His last post prior to retirement was in the Office, Assistant Secretary of Defense, International Security Affairs. He holds Master’s Degrees in International Relations (Stanford) and in History (San Jose State College). Prior to his recall to active duty, he was a doctoral student in history at the University of California, Irvine.