Editor's note: This is the second installment of a two-part series. Part I described the Navy's renaissance in the last decade of the 19th century.
“Proceed at Once to Manila”
Thousands of miles from Cuba, where the mangled remains of the battleship Maine lay interred in the mud beneath Havana Harbor, Commodore George Dewey, embarked in the cruiser Olympia as commander of the American Asiatic Squadron, received a telegram from the Secretary of the Navy ordering him to “Proceed at once to Manila; engage and destroy the Spanish fleet, when and where you find them.” That Spanish fleet was guarding the Philippines, one of the few remaining colonial possessions that had been part of the Spanish Empire for the better part of four centuries.
Dewey got underway as soon as his ships had steam up. Besides the Olympia, his squadron consisted of the cruisers Baltimore, Boston, and Raleigh, the gunboats Concord and Petrel, the revenue cutter Hugh McCulloch, and the coal transports (“colliers”) Nanshan and Zafiro. The squadron’s main firepower was in the cruisers, built thanks to a shipbuilding program begun some ten years earlier. With their tall masts and crossed yards ready to take on sail should the need arise, and their large smokestacks billowing black clouds of coal-fired smoke, these hybrids were monuments to a dying age and pioneers of the next.
The first morning at sea, the order to “clear for action” was passed. On the Olympia, barricades of canvas and iron were built up around the gun crews’ stations, and heavy chains were rigged over awnings to provide additional protection to the ships’ ammunition hoists. Although the Olympia was built primarily of steel, veterans of the recent Sino-Japanese War had told of terrible casualties resulting from flying wood splinters, so Dewey made the tactical decision to have hatch covers, spars, chests, and other removable wood items safely stowed or jettisoned. Even some of the Olympia’s mess tables were thrown over the side by overzealous cooks before they were stopped. A lieutenant on board the Baltimore noted that a trail of wood “was strewn for fifty leagues [150 miles]” in the ships’ wakes.
The Olympia’s commanding officer, Captain Charles Gridley, ordered the sailors’ wooden ditty boxes jettisoned as well. Although the crew was exuberant to fight the Spanish and seemed willing to sacrifice their lives if necessary, giving up their ditty boxes, where all their worldly possessions were kept, seemed too much to ask. Here on this disciplined warship on the far side of the world, the ditty box was the one thing a sailor could call his own, where he kept tokens of his former life and safeguarded some small ties to home. To their everlasting gratitude, Commodore Dewey came to the rescue, urging Gridley to allow the men to stow their boxes below the cruiser’s protected deck, rather than toss them into the South China Sea.
Wood was not the only thing that had to go. Barbers worked overtime shaving each sailor’s hair down close to the scalp, because the surgeons declared “hair is as dangerous as cloth in a wound.”
That evening, the Olympia’s band assembled and played a series of rousing pieces, including several Sousa marches and “Yankee Doodle,” but the crew was most enthusiastic when the band struck up a popular song of the day, “There’ll Be a Hot Time In the Old Town Tonight!” That odd sensation of nervous excitement that often prevails as battle draws near had taken hold of many of the sailors of the Asiatic Squadron, and they swayed rhythmically and slapped each other’s backs as they sang along. Indeed, a “hot time” in the “old town” of Manila was just a few days away as the U.S. ships steamed onward, ever closer to the Philippine Islands and to a page in the history books.
In the meantime, Admiral Patricio Montojo y Pasarón prepared his fleet for battle with the approaching U.S. squadron. When word of the war’s outbreak arrived, the Spanish admiral had moved his fleet out of Manila to the more remote Subic Bay some 30 miles to the north. On his arrival, however, Montojo discovered that defensive preparations were hopelessly behind schedule. Noting that the water at Subic was more than 40 meters deep, Montojo concluded his crews would have a better chance of survival if sunk in the much shallower waters of Manila Bay. It was this combination of tactics and pessimism that caused him to return to Manila Bay to make his stand there.
Dewey had been concerned about the possibility of Montojo moving to Subic. “With this strategic point effectively occupied,” he later wrote, “no hostile commander-in-chief would think of passing it and leaving it as a menace to his lines of communication.” He was relieved to find Subic Bay empty when his squadron arrived on 30 April. Calling a council of war on board the Olympia, Commodore Dewey told his commanders. “We shall enter Manila Bay tonight, and you will follow the motions of the flagship, which will lead.”
That night, the Asiatic Squadron approached the Boca Grande (“Big Mouth”) of Manila Bay. The moon hung low in the sky and was mostly masked by towers of clouds built up by the day’s tropical heat. The darkness was occasionally broken by flickers of lightning dancing among the clouds, and light showers doused the white-duck uniforms of those on deck. Guns were loaded, but breechblocks were left open to prevent accidental premature firing. As had always preceded battle since the days of sail, the decks were covered with sand to provide traction when blood and sweat moistened them.
Certain that the bay’s entrance was guarded by guns mounted among the high rocks on either side and that mines had been placed in locations unknown, tension among the crews of the U.S. ships ran high. Apprentice Seaman Wayne Longnecher remembered that this was “the hardest part of the fight . . . running the gauntlet of both mines and forts, not knowing which moment a mine or torpedo would send you through the deck above.” He sardonically reflected on the fact that he was doing this for $16.00 a month in pay.
The scene was reminiscent of an earlier time, when Dewey’s Civil War hero, David Glasgow Farragut, had run past the guns of Confederate forts at New Orleans and again at Mobile Bay, uttering his famous words, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.” But those guns had been furiously firing and, so far, these were silent.
Past the Spanish Guns
The Olympia passed unharmed into the bay, as did several ships following in column behind, steering by the single dim light mounted on each ship’s stern. It seemed possible they might all pass unchallenged, but near the end of the column, accumulated soot in the McCulloch’s smokestack ignited, and a bright column of flame erupted skyward, giving the Spanish gunners an unmistakable target. A battery from the nearby headland opened fire and an artillery round passed over the McCulloch and hit the water on her far side. She immediately returned fire with her 6-pounder and the Boston, Raleigh, and Concord opened up with their larger batteries. The deep rumble of gunfire rolled across the bay and the garish flashes briefly lit up the dark waters, but the exchange was short lived. The Spanish battery fired only three more shots before a round from the Boston silenced it. The Asiatic Squadron proceeded into Manila Bay without further hindrance.
Once past the Spanish guns guarding the entrance, the U.S. ships slowed to four knots. Manila was still 25 miles away, and Dewey decided a slow transit made good tactical sense—it would be daylight when he engaged the enemy. His squadron had a finite amount of ammunition with no means of rapid resupply, so he could not afford to waste many shots firing blindly into the dark. With no enemy in sight and the great expanse of the bay before them, the word was passed for the men to remain on station but to stand easy. Many of the crew lay down on the deck to catch a little sleep, but the excitement of the moment and the gritty sand on the decks made that a difficult proposition.
Knowing the U.S. ships were more maneuverable than his, Montojo had chosen to fight from an anchored position where he could best control and consolidate his firepower. Not wanting to subject the city of Manila to the ravages of the battle, he had positioned his fleet at Cavite, an arsenal some five miles to the south of the city. While achieving his aim of sparing the city, this decision greatly reduced his available firepower, because there were only 34 land-based guns in the Cavite area, compared to 226 guns of various types at Manila.
To prevent his ships from being vulnerable to torpedoes, Montojo had constructed a protective boom in front of his anchored ships, consisting of lighters filled with stones and water and held together in a continuous line by heavy chains. Unlike his American counterpart, Montojo had not ordered the wood stripped from his ships.
At 0400, a cold breakfast and hot coffee were served to the American crews still at their battle stations. As they ate, a young sailor on board the Olympia began to sing a somber rendition of “Just Before the Battle, Mother.” One of his shipmates poured coffee on him, cutting the concert short.
Increasing speed to eight knots, the U.S. squadron approached Manila as the sun brightened the sky behind the city. Before long it was evident that there were only sail-powered merchant ships moored at the city. There were no warships. Dewey turned his column southward and, as the ships paraded past the Manila waterfront, a few of the Spanish gun batteries opened fire on the squadron. One 9.4-inch shell passed uncomfortably close between the cruisers Raleigh and Baltimore, but none of the Spanish shots found their marks.
A sharp-eyed Olympia lookout peering southward through binoculars discerned through the morning mist a row of masts topped with bright red and yellow flags. His report was what Dewey had been waiting to hear. Here was the Spanish fleet, the object of his strategy.
Critics later pointed out that Dewey gave away a significant tactical advantage by moving his squadron in close to the Spanish fleet. His largest-caliber guns had a greater range than any of the opponent’s guns and, by remaining outside his enemy’s reach, he could have fired on the Spanish ships without any risk to his own. But Dewey felt that “in view of my limited ammunition supply, it was my plan not to open fire until we were within effective range, and then to fire as rapidly as possible with all of our guns.”
Fire When Ready
The Asiatic Squadron moved in closer. Even when the Spanish opened fire, Dewey withheld the order to commence firing. Like so many others, Landsman John Tisdale found the tension of waiting under fire excruciating. “Our hearts threatened to burst from desire to respond. I sat upon the gun-seat repeating to the rhythm of the engine’s throb, ‘Hold your fire . . . hold your fire . . . hold your fire until the bugle sounds,’ while my fingers grew numb upon the spark.”
Waiting at his station in the Olympia’s after turret, Tisdale was certainly justified in his anxiety, but there were even more difficult jobs to be accomplished. Because the ships were moving in so close to shore, and were in danger of running aground, a leadsman was required to stand at the ship’s rail, far forward on the open deck, casting his line down into the water to measure the depth. This sailor had to cast his line, let it hit bottom, retrieve it, and report both the depth and the type of bottom—all while enemy shells roared through the air and crashed into the nearby water, lifting great geysers of water skyward.
When at last of the U.S. ships had closed to within 5,000 yards, Commodore Dewey calmly uttered the words to the Olympia’s captain that would be remembered for all time, “You may fire when you are ready, Gridley.”
According to the Olympia’s official log, she commenced firing at 0535. The cruiser shuddered as shells weighing 250 pounds erupted from her forward battery. Still in column, only the Olympia’s forward guns were unmasked to fire at the enemy, and Tisdale still “chafed for the opportunity to fight back.” Dewey turned the column to starboard until it was steaming nearly parallel to the Spanish line of ships. Now Tisdale’s after turret could be brought to bear on the enemy, as could every U.S. gun that could be trained to port.
The American gunners did not hold back. Long before the phrase “shock and awe” would enter the American lexicon of war, the Asiatic Squadron let loose with all its fury, firing every available gun as quickly as possible to deluge the Spanish fleet with exploding shellfire. On his flagship the Reina Cristina, Admiral Montojo watched as “the Americans fired most rapidly. There came upon us numberless projectiles. . .”
The Olympia led the way as the U.S. ships ran along the Spanish line, firing relentlessly as they passed. When they were beyond the enemy line, they executed a tactical “corpen” of 180 degrees, turning in column to preserve the order of ships for another run in the opposite direction. The guns were shifted to starboard for this run, and again a withering fire was brought to bear on the enemy. The Spanish fought back, even as their ships began to burn and splinter apart. They sortied several torpedo-boat attacks, but these were driven back by the Americans’ smaller guns, including those of the embarked Marines, who fired their rifles at the charging boats.
The battle raged on for several passes. These tactical maneuvers ensured that the maximum force of the U.S. guns was brought to bear on the stationary Spanish ships. By keeping his ships immobile, Montojo had traded maneuverability for stability and control. As the battle took shape, it became evident that this decision had also made them easily identifiable targets. At last Montojo decided to go on the offensive. Whether he saw it as a tactical venture, designed to gain some military advantage, or as merely an act of defiance for honor’s sake, is not clear, but he ordered his flagship to get underway and to charge headlong at his tormentors.
Apprentice Seaman Longnecher, peering out from his gunport in the Olympia, could see the Spanish ship coming. “As the Reina Cristina came out from the yard to meet us, she planted a shell into the side right at my gun port. But it was spent and did not come all the way through before it burst.” John Tisdale was impressed by the Spanish tenacity. He witnessed one of his after turret’s 8-inch shells rip “through and through” the charging Spanish ship, yet “like an enraged panther she came at us as though to lash sides and fight us hand to hand with battle axes, as in the olden Spanish wars.”
But the charge was in vain. On fire and badly mauled, the Reina Cristina was forced to come about and limp back to her mooring. She was so badly damaged that Montojo soon ordered her abandoned and shifted his flag to another ship as she sank. Her losses were catastrophic. One hundred and fifty were killed and another 90 wounded. Five years later, she would be raised from the mud of Manila Bay and the skeletons of 80 men were discovered in her sick bay.
Finishing the Fight
(U.S. Naval Academy Museum Portrait)
The battle raged on for another half hour until the smoke became so thick that it was impossible to see what was happening. It was then that Dewey received a most unsettling report. Word came from Captain Gridley that Olympia had only 15 remaining rounds of heavy-caliber munitions—enough to fight for five more minutes. With the battle undecided as far as he could tell, Dewey ordered the Asiatic Squadron to withdraw, much to the mixed relief and consternation of the crews. They could not help but be glad for the rest, yet they were “fired up for victory,” as one lieutenant observed.
Moving out of range, Dewey called his captains to Olympia for a meeting. He ordered a hot meal for the crews while these officers conferred. Word spread that Dewey had stopped the fight expressly for the purpose of having breakfast. Not a few of the men expressed their dismay and disapproval of that decision. One gunner was heard to say “For God’s sake, Captain, don’t let us stop now. To hell with breakfast!”
While the many ate and passed scuttlebutt, the few conferred. Dewey soon learned that the report on low ammunition was made in error. He also learned that there had been only six Americans wounded, all in the Baltimore, and none killed in action.
The smoke eventually cleared substantially, and at 1116 the U.S. squadron headed back to finish the fight. They resumed the bombardment, and in less than an hour, all Spanish ships were destroyed or put out of action. A white flag appeared over the naval station at Cavite, and the Battle of Manila Bay was over.
From the Olympia’s main deck that night, Wayne Longnecher watched the remnants of the Spanish fleet burning across the water. “It was a beautiful sight to see; besides about 12 or 13 ships all in flames, small magazines were going up all night.” He and his shipmates would never forget that night, nor the day’s events that had led up to it.
John Tisdale’s hitch was up, and soon after the battle, he made his way halfway across the world to return home. He had left California as a young boy, still “wet behind the ears.” He came home a sailor and combat veteran, with tattoos to tell parts of his story and a newfound confidence that comes to those who have faced great challenges and prevailed.
On his arrival in the United States, Tisdale found the country ecstatic over the U.S. Navy’s victory at Manila Bay. Everywhere he went, he heard songs with lyrics praising the great triumph. Banners proclaimed Dewey and his men the “saviors of the Republic,” and newspaper stories spoke of a “new era of American dominance of the sea.”
The Spanish fleet had been destroyed, and 381 Spaniards lost their lives in the fight. The Asiatic Squadron had lost not a single man, much less a ship. As in all battles, technology, logistics, and no small amount of courage were major factors in the outcome. But it should be apparent that U.S. tactics were clearly superior to those of the Spanish.
Despite this impressive victory, the U.S. strategy for winning the war with Spain was not yet complete. Another Spanish fleet remained in the Atlantic, and until it could be defeated, the war was still undecided.
Naval Preparations in the Atlantic
Once war had been declared, the main concern in the Atlantic was the Spanish fleet, then in its home waters. Ideally, the U.S. Navy would have taken the fight to the enemy, but the U.S. fleet could not carry enough coal to make an Atlantic crossing, find and fight the Spanish fleet, and return home. In addition, such a move would leave the eastern seaboard open to attack, something that was unlikely but was feared by many Americans. Under the circumstances, it made more sense to leave the Navy’s Atlantic forces on the western side of the ocean.
Two squadrons were formed to defend the U.S. homeland and engage the Spanish fleet if it showed up. One was established at Hampton Roads under Commodore Winfield Scott Schley. Named the “Flying Squadron,” it consisted of the battleships Massachusetts and Texas and the cruisers Brooklyn, Columbia, and Minnesota. The “Home Squadron,” under Rear Admiral William T. Sampson, consisted of the battleships Indiana and Iowa, the cruisers New York, Montgomery, and Detroit, and an assortment of lesser vessels. Sampson’s squadron also was augmented by the arrival of the battleship Oregon, which Captain Charles E. Clark had gotten underway from San Francisco even before war had been declared and had made a record-setting voyage of 14,700 miles in 67 days. Believing the Spanish fleet would most likely show up at Cuba, Sampson initially positioned his force nearby at Key West, Florida, to await the arrival of the enemy.
Finding the Spanish Atlantic Fleet
In the meantime, while there was great jubilation back in the United States over the impressive victory in the Pacific, anxieties continued to run high as the U.S. public wondered when and where the Spanish would attack. On 1 May, word reached the United States that a Spanish fleet under the command of Admiral Pascual Cervera had sailed from the Cape Verde Islands off the west coast of Africa, and it seemed only a matter of time before the enemy would arrive.
Admiral Sampson initially positioned himself in the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti, hoping to intercept Cervera there. But after more than a week, he convinced himself that the Spanish admiral was headed for Puerto Rico, another Spanish island possession in the Caribbean. On his arrival at Puerto Rico, Sampson found no Spanish fleet and, after bombarding harbor fortifications for several hours, he headed back to Key West. There, on 18 May, Sampson learned that the enemy fleet had been seen taking on coal at Curaçao in the West Indies.
On hearing of Cervera’s arrival in Caribbean waters, Commodore Schley headed south from Hampton Roads with his Flying Squadron. For the next two weeks, the Americans moved about the Caribbean, searching for the elusive Cervera, before finally discovering he had taken his fleet of four cruisers and two destroyers into the harbor at Santiago, Cuba.
The frustrating search over, Schley and Sampson converged on Santiago, but it soon became apparent that engaging Cervera in that heavily fortified harbor would be foolhardy. Accordingly, Sampson and Schley took up station off the harbor’s entrance to await Cervera’s next move. Facing a much larger U.S. force from the safety of the harbor with its well-placed guns and mines, Cervera had gained the initiative—but little else. For the Americans, the frustrating search was replaced by a frustrating blockade. More than a month would pass before the situation would be resolved.
Battle of Santiago
Admiral Sampson tried to break the impasse. He first attempted to sink a vessel in the harbor’s mouth to bottle up the Spanish fleet and force a surrender. Then he shelled the Spanish fortifications. Neither effort succeeded, and Cervera remained in Santiago Harbor, safe from attack, but trapped with little hope of escape.
Things at last came to a head on 3 July, when Admiral Sampson took his flagship New York out of the blockade to rendezvous with Major General William Shafter at the Army base at Siboney, east of Santiago, for a war council. As it happened, the battleship Massachusetts had also departed the area to recoal at Guantanamo Bay. With the blockading force reduced by two major ships, Cervera decided this was probably the best opportunity for a breakout he would get, so he ordered his fleet to get underway.
One by one, the Spanish ships emerged from Santiago Harbor and turned westward to run along the southern coast of Cuba. After some initial confusion that gave the Spanish a running start, the American ships began to give chase. Hearing the gunfire, Sampson turned back, and the New York joined the pursuit.
Among the American vessels in the blockading force was the Gloucester. Formerly tycoon J. P. Morgan’s wooden yacht the Corsair, this vessel had been taken over by the Navy and converted to a gunboat displacing a mere 786 tons and armed with an array of 6-pound and 3-pound guns. Despite her diminutive size, her commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Richard Wainwright, turned his yacht-turned-warship toward the enemy, using her excellent speed to close on the Spanish destroyers Furor and Plutón. Ignoring heavy fire from the Spanish ships and the nearby fort guarding the entrance to the harbor, Wainwright charged headlong into the fray. The Gloucester’s 3- and 6-pounders fired continuously, while two of her crew inflicted serious casualties on the enemy with shoulder-fired Colt rifles.
(Naval History and Heritage Command)
The Plutón slowed as the Gloucester’s firing took its toll, but when the Spanish destroyer was hit by large-caliber gunfire from one of the battleships, she was cut in two. Soon, the Gloucester’s persistent and accurate fire severed the Furor’s steering cables, and she began circling helplessly, unable to evade the hammering delivered by Wainwright’s little ship. She too succumbed and eventually went to the bottom.
The U.S. battleships and cruisers soon closed in on the fleeing Spanish cruisers, mangling them with heavy American gunfire, one after another. The Infanta María Teresa, Cervera’s flagship, was the first to succumb. Struck by an 8-inch shell that not only started a raging fire but cut her fire mains as well, she beached less than 7 miles from the harbor entrance. The Almirante Oquenda was likewise driven ashore as a shattered wreck just a mile west of the flagship. The Viscaya managed another 10 miles of flight before she, too, beached, a smoldering testament to the destructiveness of modern naval gunfire.
Only one cruiser remained, ironically named for the celebrated discoverer of America. The Cristóbal Colón, fastest of the Spanish cruisers, continued her westward dash, pursued by the faster U.S. ships, the Oregon, Brooklyn, and Texas. After 55 miles of flight, many of the Spanish ship’s crew were exhausted (and some of them probably inebriated from consuming the brandy they were given to encourage their shoveling efforts). The ship slowed, and gunfire from the pursuing Americans began to fall close aboard. The last ship of Cervera’s fleet struck her colors and headed for the shore.
The Spanish had suffered 351 killed and another 151 wounded, with more than 1,800 taken prisoner, including Admiral Cervera. In sharp contrast, U.S. casualties had been one killed and one seriously wounded. It was one of the most one-sided victories in U.S. Navy history.
Despite an unseemly public controversy involving the two major commanders—Commodore Schley of the Flying Squadron and Rear Admiral Sampson of the Home Squadron—the victory was widely and fervently embraced by the American public, significantly enhancing the Navy’s reputation and leading to the creation of the Navy League that remains an important proponent of the Sea Services today.
Among the many favorable assessments of the battle, Theodore Roosevelt singled out the actions of Richard Wainwright, writing “The most striking act was that of the Gloucester, a converted yacht, which her commander, Wainwright, pushed into the fight through a hail of projectiles, any one of which would have sunk her, in order that he might do his part in destroying the two torpedo boats, each possessing more than his own offensive power.” Wainwright continued a distinguished career, which included contributing many important articles to the Naval Institute’s Proceedings and serving as that organization’s president before retiring as a rear admiral.
Metamorphosis
At home, the overwhelming naval victories in the Spanish-American War were celebrated with great enthusiasm, with naval officers such as Dewey and Sampson elevated to lofty heights in the popular culture. The war had another domestic side-effect, that of healing some of the wounds inflicted by the Civil War. Having a common enemy often unites peoples with differences, and this was no exception.
On the international front, the United States had gained possession of the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Guam because of the war. Added to the annexations of Midway and Hawaii, the nation had joined the Europeans in the contagion of global imperialism, something that would have been anathema just a short time before but was now seen in a different light. An American ambassador dubbed the conflict with Spain “a splendid little war,” a sentiment shared by many Americans who saw the victory as an extension of the nation’s “manifest destiny,” a calling beyond continental expansion that would take the United States out of the wings and onto the world stage.
At the dawn of the 20th century, the still-young but rapidly maturing nation would find itself increasingly involved in the affairs of other nations. That metamorphosis from isolation to participation would eventually bring the added responsibility of leadership. And one of the key components of that leadership would be the growing power of the U.S. Navy.
