Last Stand at the Long Barracks

The Alamo

Colonel William Barret Travis raced across the old mission grounds to his battery.  “Come on boys,” he shouted. “The Mexicans are upon us and we’ll give them hell!”  Within an hour, Mexican forces had penetrated the walls and were fanning out toward the chapel.  Point blank cannon fire mowed down scores, but the Texans’ meager numbers couldn’t plug the onrush.  Travis himself was among the first to fall - a bullet through the forehead.  The only place left to make a stand was the barracks.  Before the battle ended, savage hand to hand fighting would occur within its long adobe interior.  It was the last stand at the Alamo.

 

If any place in Texas was ill-suited to be a fortress, San Antonio’s Mission San Antonio de Valero was certainly it.   Its remoteness ensured little support from the Texas populace further east.  The fort covered more ground than the Texans could adequately defend.  The walls were only good for fending off bullets and arrows, not artillery.  To make matters worse, the walls covered a standing man only to mid torso, a real hazard under heavy musket fire.  Even the redoubtable Texan commander, General Sam Houston, took note of its faults and ordered Colonel Jim Bowie to blow it up.  Nevertheless, the Alamo, as it was called, offered some semblance of a fort and the Texans’ small numbers precluded any kind of major offensive action.  Santa Anna’s thousands would soon be among them.  They had to hold them off somewhere.

In December 1835, General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna set out from San Luis Potosi with six thousand men, mostly inexperienced conscripts bolstered by well-trained regulars.   One Mexican officer remarked that the Mexican Army was “created by bayonets and now had to be up held by them.”  Each battalion carried only a month’s supply of rations - the equivalent of one 8 oz corn cake a day per man.   The few supplies on hand were transported grudgingly by civilian teamsters.  Often unreliable, they abruptly deserted when they didn’t receive their pay on time.   The cooks and nurses, called soldaderas, were not military; they were the wives of the soldiers.  Needless to say, they were a distraction among their husbands, who were a lot more concerned about them than their duty to Santa Anna.  If the supply problem wasn’t bad enough, there was the weather.  In February, a freakish blizzard laid out a 16-inch ice carpet across Northern Mexico.  Troops from Yucatan, more accustomed to a tropical climate, suffered mightily from the bitter cold.  Lacking overcoats, many stuffed their uniforms with grass and hay.  Those that didn’t died from exposure.  Despite their ordeal, Santa Anna’s “Army of Operations” showed remarkable fortitude and willingly pressed onward to chastise their rebellious neighbors.   

Meanwhile, the Alamo’s commander, Colonel James Clinton Neill, did what he could to convert the Alamo into a bulwark.  With only a hundred men, crumbling walls were shored up with dirt and logs.  Nineteen cannons were brought in and placed in embrasures along the walls.  Due to his ailing family, Neill was forced to leave San Antonio for home.  He was replaced with a very young Colonel Travis.  When Bowie arrived, he was impressed enough to cancel Houston’s orders.  His problems only increased from there.  First, there was the problem of command; Bowie’s men refused to follow Travis.  That left the prideful Travis with just under thirty men to command.  A patchwork solution was reached when Bowie and Travis agreed to command jointly.  Second, reinforcements would be needed to defend the fort.  Two hundred men, armed with one-shot, flintlock muskets, was certainly not enough against 6,000 Mexicans.  Lastly, there was the problem of food.  The Alamo’s supply wouldn't last a month if a siege came about.

On February 28, a lookout, posted in the bell tower of the San Fernando Church, warned of Santa Anna’s approach.  The Alamo garrison hastily gathered up what food and water they could carry from San Antonio.  Upon the Mexican dictator’s arrival, an ultimatum was sent to the Alamo.  The Texans were to surrender unconditionally or face death.  Travis responded with a blast of cannon fire.  Santa Anna responded with the red flag of “No Quarter” hoisted over San Fernando’s bell tower.  To demoralize the garrison and weaken the Alamo’s walls, a daily bombardment from the Mexican artillery ensued.  Knowing his situation was critical bordering on hopeless, Travis sent out letters by courier requesting reinforcements.  Colonel James Fannin, with over 300 in Goliad, set out for San Antonio, but was delayed by broken supply wagons, contrary oxen and oddly forgetting to pack food before setting off.  The delay proved fatal for him, his men and the Alamo.  Mexican troops bagged them all then later massacred them.  Fannin was executed with a shot through the face.  In response to Travis’ plea, thirty men reached the Alamo from Gonzales.  Their spirits certainly took a nosedive when they saw just how desperate things really were.

With only a month’s supply of rations, a tight siege would probably have forced the Texans to surrender.  Santa Anna had a more grandiose plan in mind.  The Alamo would be stormed from all sides in a surprise dawn attack.  On March 6, 1836, Mexican troops rose from a midnight slumber, prodded by sergeants bearing wooden staffs.  Lines were quietly assembled and bayonets affixed to their British made muskets.   Santa Anna chose a 5:30 AM attack knowing the Texans would be drowsy and freezing in the night time cold.  Upon approaching the walls, the surprise ended when the Mexicans began shouting “Viva Santa Anna!”  The Texans, alerted to the attack, poured preloaded musket and cannon fire into their columns.  The attack wavered then picked up after Santa Anna committed his reserve forces.  By sheer force of numbers, the Mexicans breached the walls in a flood of bayonets.  The Texans’ muskets and cannons (only three men per cannon) couldn’t be loaded and fired fast enough.   Those who were not killed defending the walls sought positions within the long barracks and chapel; they were the only two places left.  The barracks’ doors were blocked shut while the others fired from the windows.  Unfortunately, they didn’t count on the Mexicans using their own artillery against them.  Cannons were rolled up to barrack doors then fired into the doors.  Afterwards, some sought surrender by affixing a white cloth to their musket and poking it out a window.  Those that didn’t continued shooting.  Enraged by seeing comrades gunned down under waving surrender flags, Mexicans took their anger out on the few still standing.  Bodies from both sides piled up in barrack’s interior – a charnel house of smoke and scorched bodies. 

The battle was over in less than an hour; all were killed.  Those that attempted to escape over the wall were speared by mounted lancers posted outside.  The legendary Davy Crocket, along with his Tennesseans, was overwhelmed near the Alamo chapel.  Contrary to legend, he may have been executed after surrendering; no one knows for sure.  Overtaken by illness, possibly pneumonia, Jim Bowie was killed on his sickbed.  

Mexican losses totaled close to 600, a figure accelerated by Santa Anna’s lack of field hospitals and doctors.  In a show of disrespect, no Texan was afforded a Christian burial; they were all burned on wooden funeral pyres.  Though Santa Anna gained “No Quarter” victories at San Antonio and Goliad, he lost the moral high ground in the process.  Vengeance provided more than enough incentive for Texans and their U.S. neighbors to enlist with Sam Houston.   It paid bloody dividends at San Jacinto.  

Come and Take It !

"Come and Take It" flag

By 1835, Texas was a colony on the verge of revolt.  President- General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna had overthrown Mexico’s constitutional government and replaced it with himself.   The rise of Santa Anna’s Centralist government marked the beginning of hardened attitudes toward the Texan colonists.  The lure of cheap land, no taxes and Mexico’s constitutional government lured droves of U.S. citizens to Texas – legally and illegally.  Slavery, which had been abolished in Mexico, was openly practiced in Texas; local authorities could do little to prevent it.  To make matters worse, hundreds of squatters settled on land without Mexico’s permission.  Once encouraged to settle in Texas to help ward off Indian raids, the colonists were becoming a bigger threat to Mexico than the Comanches.  Things were about to change.

Santa Anna ordered all illegal settlers expelled and that all Texans be disarmed.  To demonstrate he meant business, Santa Anna ruthlessly put down a Federalist revolt in the province of Zacatecas.  As a reward, he allowed his troops to rape and pillage Zacatecas for two straight days.  Alarmed, Stephen F. Austin rode down to Mexico City to seek independence for Texas as an alternative to Santa Anna’s tyranny.  Instead, he was arrested and spent two years in prison.  Upon release, Austin was convinced resistance was the only recourse for Texas.

In 1831, a small, six pound cannon was presented to Gonzales impresario, Green C. DeWitt, for the defense of his colony against Indians.  In September 1835, Mexico’s military commander of Texas, Colonel Domingo Ugartechea, ordered the colony to return the cannon.  To retrieve it, he dispatched one hundred troops, under Lieutenant Francisco Casteneda, to Gonzales.  The good citizens of Gonzales weren’t about to let that happen. 

Upon reaching the Guadalupe River on September 29, a group of Gonzales militiamen (eighteen in all) refused to allow Casteneda to cross.  Casteneda, under strict orders to not provoke a fight and risk defeat at hands of those upstart Texans, complied and set up camp on a nearby hill.  The Gonzales militia, meanwhile, sent out a call to all neighboring settlements for help.  Noted ranger, Captain Matthew (“Old Paint”) Caldwell, sent word to Casteneda that his troops would not be attacked during the night and he would be respectfully contacted the following morning.  Such assurances were a means of stalling the Mexicans while reinforcements were gathered.  By October 1, the Texans had one hundred forty men to confront Casteneda.  The Mexicans moved seven miles upriver to attempt a less defended crossing.  Discovering Casteneda’s maneuver, the Texans decided to make their own crossing and attack his camp.  They stealthily ferried themselves across, but a thick fog prevented a coordinated attack and a barking dog took away the element of surprise.  Under fire from the alerted Mexican camp, the Texans fell back toward the Guadalupe and the protection of a tree line along the river.  The following day, Casteneda, ordered a charge by forty of his cavalry.  Armed with superior Kentucky rifles, the Texans delivered a volley that halted the charge in its tracks and forced the Mexicans to return to their camp.  A stalemate ensued until the fog lifted.

Before the fighting resumed, an unlikely messenger rode up to the Texans bearing a message; Casteneda wanted a parley.  The messenger, Dr. Launcelot Smither, was a self-appointed envoy sent from San Antonio to prevent bloodshed and encourage the return of the cannon.  Because the Texans broke their word that they wouldn’t attack, Casteneda didn’t trust the Anglo doctor’s motives.  Because he came at the behest of the Mexican military commander, the Texans didn’t trust him either.  Nevertheless, Smither set up a meeting between Casteneda and the Texan commander, Colonel John Henry Moore, on neutral ground between the opposing lines.  Cateneda asked why he was attacked when promised he wouldn’t be.  Moore replied that Casteneda was acting illegally on behalf of Santa Anna and in defiance of Mexico’s constitutional government.  Casteneda said he was not looking for a fight but was only requesting the return of the cannon.  He also stated that he, like Moore, was a Federalist, a supporter of the constitutional government.  Moore put Casteneda on the spot by suggesting he should switch sides and fight with the Texans.  Taken aback, he responded that as a soldier he was duty bound to Mexico’s present government – be it Federalist or Centralist.  The negotiations went nowhere and both commanders returned to their respective camps.  The Mexicans noticed the Texans had a new flag to stoke their rebellious spirit: a white flag with a black cannon barrel on it and the defiant words “Come and Take It” printed below it.  The tiny cannon itself was on hand and mounted on an ox cart - more frightening for its noise than its destructive force.  Unimpressive as a weapon, it was more than impressive in symbolic value. 

Upon Moore’s return, the Texans fired the cannon toward the Mexican camp and followed it with a spirited charge.  No cannon balls were on hand, only scrap metal was available for ammo.  Before they could close in, Casteneda’s men left the field and returned to San Antonio.  Casteneda wrote in his report that “since the orders from your Lordship were for me to withdraw without compromising the honor of Mexican arms, I did so.” 

The Battle of Gonzales was more of a glorified shoving match than a battle.  Two Mexicans were killed while one Texan received a bloody nose after falling from his horse – the first Texan casualty of a growing revolt.  Like Lexington of the American Revolution, Gonzales, the “Lexington of Texas,” marked the first act of armed defiance against Santa Anna.  As events unfolded, Santa Anna himself would try to come and take it on a more massive scale - the Texas Revolution had begun !

The cannon itself may have been captured at the Alamo and later melted down; nobody knows exactly.  Often seen today on the bumpers and rear windows of motor vehicles, the “Come and Take It” slogan is a popular symbol of Texas’ independent spirit.  Every October, the City of Gonzales celebrates the battle with its “Come and Take It Days.”   A fine replica of the cannon is on view at the Gonzales Memorial Museum.

The Plan of San Diego

Venustiano Carranza

In the early 1900’s, South Texas was a world apart from the rest of Texas.  Its southernmost city, Brownsville, was a remote corner of the state with closer ties to Mexico than to the United States.  Unlike the other Texas cities, it was not connected to the Texas Railroad System and had little contact with cities above the Nueces River.  Although they had Hispanic majorities, the counties below the Nueces, or “Nueces Strip,” were dominated by Anglo ranchers and powerful politicians referred to as “Bosses.”  In return for cheap labor and unswerving loyalty, the ranchers provided care to Mexicans whenever they needed it.  Large ranches, such as the King Ranch, were like feudal estates. 

In 1904, things began to change with the arrival of the railroad.  Mostly from the Midwest, hundreds of farmers arrived by train looking for opportunity and bearing a deep disdain of Mexicans and political bosses.  Mexicans were viewed as lazy, ignorant wage slaves – inferior in every way like the livestock they tended.  Local politics became volatile as bosses and farming communities vied for power, especially in the Lower Rio Grande Valley.  Into this turbulent mix, a force for radical change was inserted from south of the border.

The Mexican Revolution brought about an opportunity to turn the tables on local politics.  In 1910, many South Texas Hispanics were influenced by the radical ideas “La Revolucion” planted.  One such idea was the “Plan of San Diego.”  The plan called for a massive uprising among Hispanics, Native Americans and all other disgruntled minorities.  Texas and the other Southwest states were to be overthrown by force and later annexed by Mexico or converted into separate republics.  Needless to say, such a plan did not sit well with white Texas politicians, businessmen and law enforcement officials.  The plan was first brought to light with the arrest of revolutionist Basilio Ramos in McAllen.  The plan was considered, by a judge, to be so fantastic in scope that he thought Ramos was a lunatic.

Inspired by the plan, a number of guerrilla raids broke out in the summer of 1915.  Collectively, these raids became known as the “Bandit War.”  During its six month course, ranches were attacked, businesses looted, railroad tracks sabotaged and innocent civilians shot out of hand.  The war began in earnest with a raid conducted by forty Mexican irregulars or “Sediciosos” led by a red haired, freckle faced revolutionist named Luis de la Rosa.  They killed two ranchers at Lyford and shot a boy while looting a store near Raymondville.

Texas Governor James E. Ferguson felt harsh measures were needed to quell the uprising.  He couldn’t have picked a more brutal person to initiate them – a Texas Ranger captain with a itchy trigger finger.   Forty-one year old Henry Lee Ransom was a former Houston police chief who was actually fired for being too violent.  He learned his craft while serving in the army during the Philippine Insurrection (1899-1903), a dark chapter in U.S. History where many Filipinos were imprisoned, tortured and executed.  Ransom’s approach to law enforcement was brutally simple: “Shoot first. Ask questions later!”  Two weeks after De la Rosa’s raid, Captain Ransom arrived in Harlingen to begin operations.  Governor Ferguson later recalled that he had given Ransom instructions “to go down there and clean up that nest, that thing had been going on long enough, and to clean it up if he had to kill every damned man connected with it.”  Ransom would follow the Governor’s instructions to the letter. 

De la Rosa’s guns had barely cooled before he struck again on August 6, 1915.  He and fourteen Sediciosos raided the town of Sebastian, thirty miles north of Brownsville.  They robbed a store and executed A.L. Austin, the vigilante president of the Sebastian Law and Order League.  Ransom responded by killing three Mexican ranchers while trying to head off de la Rosa’s band. 

Because of its stature and proximity, the King Ranch was an obvious target.  The Norias Division Headquarters of the King Ranch consisted of a large two story house for the ranch hands and a railroad section house for railroad employees who maintained the nearby tracks.  In addition to the headquarters personnel were eight soldiers from Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio.  Sixty of De la Rosas’s cohorts attacked the Norias headquarters on August 8.  In addition to the Sediciosos, twenty-five soldiers of the revolutionary general, Venustiano Carranza, joined de la Rosa.  Railroad Customs Inspector D. Portus Gay spotted the Sediciosos from the section house.  “Look at those big hats,” he said, “they are damned bandits!”  The Sediciosos charged the ranch house with a piercing yell, but were met with deadly fire from the soldiers’ Springfield rifles. They were forced to retreat, leaving behind four dead.  Two ranch hands and two soldiers were wounded.  One elderly Mexican woman was shot through the mouth after calling one of the Sediciosos a “cowardly bastard of a white burra” to his face.

Norias Ranch House

In retaliation, Ransom’s men began executing Mexicans by the score.  To make matters worse, the farming communities formed vigilante committees to circumvent local law enforcement and deal directly with suspected Sediciosos – often with a rope and a sturdy tree branch.  Anglo residents began leaving their farms in the Nueces Strip for safer sanctuaries up north while Mexicans fled south to Mexico.  Victims of Ransom’s “clean up” were found in tidy rows among the chaparral - bullet holes in the middle of their foreheads. Before the end of September 1915, two to three hundred Mexicans were executed.

On October 18, 1915, the most spectacular of the Sedicioso raids took place on a railroad track just north of Brownsville.  Sixty Sediciosos pulled out a rail, causing a small train of one baggage car and two passenger cars to derail.   An engineer was killed during the derailment while the fireman was badly scalded.  Two soldiers, a former Texas Ranger, and a prominent state doctor were shot.  The Sediciosos escaped back to Mexico.  Ransom responded by killing three Mexicans that lived nearby.

President Woodrow Wilson realized that Mexico was the key to ending the uprising.  Sedicioso cells operated openly across the border in Matamoros.  Officers of General Carranza supported them with arms and men.  Wilson, however, had a trump card to overturn Carranza’s support –foreign recognition of Carranza as President of Mexico.  Northern Mexico was home to three noted revolutionaries: Pancho Villa, Pascual Orozco and Venustiano Carranza.  All were vying for U.S. recognition of their claims to the Mexican presidency.  Wilson hated Carranza but the other Latin American countries supported him.  He extended recognition to Carranza who now had to remove the Sedicioso bases or face a possible U.S. invasion and loss of support.  Showing that it meant business, the U.S. Army increased its troop strength on the border to 31,400. Carranza brought an end to the Sedicioso raids.

Ransom’s operations in South Texas are a dark passage in the history of the Texas Rangers and remain a source of heated controversy today. Ransom himself met an abrupt end in 1918 while staying at a hotel in Sweetwater.  Upon hearing gunfire outside the door of his room, he walked out into the hallway and into the middle of a gunfight between two hotel guests. One of the guests accidentally shot him.

"Avenge the Houston !"

U.S.S. Houston

 

 

 

Four U.S. Navy ships have carried the name Houston, but only one captures the spotlight and deservedly so.  During the few weeks after Pearl Harbor, the heavy cruiser U.S.S. Houston bore the brunt of  U.S. naval efforts in the South Pacific.  With no air support,  the Houston took on a vast Japanese armada and heroically went down swinging.

The 1,100 man cruiser was commissioned on June 17, 1930 and spent her years before the war with the U.S. Pacific Fleet. She  visited her namesake city only once before the war.  In February, 1942,  the Houston joined a combined Allied fleet based on the Java coast at Surabaya.   Things were not going well for the Allies; Singapore had fallen to the Japanese and an invasion of the Dutch East Indies was underway.  In a stunning display of naval air power, Japanese bombers sank the British battleships H.M.S. Repulse and H.M.S. Prince of Wales. The way was open for Japan to conquer all of the South Pacific.  The only obstacle was a tiny fleet of Australian, British, Dutch and U.S. warships.

Under the command of Dutch Rear Admiral Karl Doorman, the Allied fleet set out to engage a Japanese convoy invading Java.  Instead of one convoy, they encountered two covered by a naval force of three cruisers and fourteen destroyers.  Japanese warships were armed with the superior "Long Lance" or Type 93 torpedoes which they used with great success.  At the Battle of Java Sea, on February 27, 1942, the Allied fleet was reduced to just two cruisers, the Australian H.M.A.S. Perth and the Houston.  Doorman was killed when his flagship, the DeRuyter, was blown to bits by a torpedo.  So many reports emerged that the Houston was sunk that she was nicknamed "The Galloping Ghost of the Java Coast."

The next day, the Perth and Houston steamed to Tanjung Priok near Jakarta.  There they received orders to steam west through the Sunda Strait, take on the Japanese invasion fleet, and escape into the Indian Ocean.  Through lack of intelligence, the two cruisers didn't know the Japanese had sealed off the strait; the Houston and Perth were heading toward their doom.  At midnight, they encountered a fleet of Japanese transports landing troops near Batavia. A point blank exchange of naval gun fire ensued in which two of the transports and a minesweeper were sunk.  On board one of the sinking transports was the commander of the Japanese invasion force, Lt. General Hitoshi Imamura.  He was forced to jump overboard and swim ashore.   Japanese cruisers and destroyers closed in on the Allied cruisers and sank both of them with torpedoes and shellfire.  The Houston's skipper, Captain Albert Rooks, was killed along with 693 crewmembers.  Commander Walter Winslow of the Houston recalled, "It seemed as though a sudden breeze picked up the Stars and Stripes and waved them in one last defiant gesture."  Captain Rooks was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.

The survivors were picked up by the Japanese and sent to prison camps in Southeast Asia.  Not until after the war would all the details of the Houston's sinking and the fate of her crew be learned.  Only 291 survivors would make it back to the U.S. after the war.  Many of them had been forced to help build the "Death Railway" made infamous in the movie, "The Bridge on the River Kwai."  Actor William Holden played a survivor from the Houston.

 What happened three months latter was a massive, Texas size response to the Houston's sinking.  In an inspired recruiting drive,  navy recruiting officer Clarence C. Taylor attempted to recruit 1,000 men from the City of Houston to replace the lost crew of the Houston.  The response was electric.  Under the motto "Avenge the Houston," thousands jammed the streets of downtown Houston to watch the swearing-in of 1,400 men into the ranks of the U.S. Navy. 

Seventy two years later, in August, 2014, U.S. and Indonesian Navy divers discovered the wreck of the Houston in the Sea of Java.  As a gravesite for the Houston's crew, it has been respectfully placed off limits to any salvage or recreational diving.

Check out James D. Hornfischer's fine book, "Ship of Ghosts: The Story of the U.S.S. Houston, FDR's Legendary Lost Cruiser, and the Epic Saga of her Survivors."



Texas' First Naval Victory

Republic of Texas Schooner

 

 

 

Stephen F. Austin enjoyed the ocean breeze.  After eighteen years in Mexican prisons for suspicion of treason,  it felt good to be out.  The emprasario of the largest colony in Texas had made his way from Mexico City to New Orleans. From there, the schooner San Felipe would take him down the gulf coast to the Texas port of Velasco.  As the port came into view, any anticipated homecomings were cut short; a Mexican warship appeared on the horizon.     

During Austin's absence, Mexico's Centralist government, led by General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, decided to reign in its remote colony with taxes, import duties and armed troops.  Texas colonists greatly resented this sudden intrusion.  For years, they had lived tax free, courtesy of a distracted Mexican government beset with internal discord.  To enforce the collection of import duties along the Texas coast, Mexico dispatched an ill-tempered, hard drinking navy lieutenant with few endearing qualities, Thomas "Mexico" Thompson. 

Prior to joining the Mexican navy, the English born Thompson was a down and out merchant captain looking for a second chance.  That second chance would come from extorting Texas merchant vessels at the helm of his warship Correo Mejicano.  Texans saw him for what he really was, a mere pirate in the guise of a Mexican naval officer.  Thompson, on the other hand, despised those  ungrateful Yankee Texans who refused to support their government.  The fuse was lit.

On September 1, 1835,  Thompson attempted to seize the merchant vessel Tremont, anchored just off  the coast near Velasco.  Suspecting the Tremont of smuggling illegal goods , he sent over a marine detachment in rowboats to take possession. In a boiling rage, the ship's owner, Thomas McKinney, watched the seizure unfold from ashore.  He decided to take matters into his own hands.  Accompanied by thirty armed volunteers, he boarded the steamboat Laura and steamed out to the Tremont.  Pulling alongside the seized vessel, McKinney's men opened fire with their muskets on the marines.  Fleeing for their lives, Thompson's men jumped back into their rowboats and paddled back to the Correo. 

As he approached Velasco, the swashbuckling skipper of the San Felipe, Captain William Hurd, armed the two 12 pound cannons he had on board.  Each despising the other, Thompson and Hurd had been looking for each other for weeks.  Both boasted they would capture or summarily execute the other.  Now they would get their chance.    

After securing the Tremont, the Laura steamed out to the San Felipe.  Seeing the "Father of Texas" on board was a huge morale booster for McKinney and his volunteers.  The Laura towed the San Felipe back to Velasco where Austin and his fellow passengers disembarked.  Hurd and 20 volunteers boarded the San Felipe.  It was time to settle up with "Mexico" Thompson; they were going after him. 

Hurd pulled up alongside the Correo as the evening darkness approached.  Thompson called out to the  Texans with his bullhorn, "Let go your anchors, you damned Yankees!"  Instead the Texans let go with their cannons and muskets.  For forty five minutes, the Correo and San Felipe traded shots in the darkness.  The lack of wind led to a thick cloud of gun smoke that shrouded the opposing vessels.  Screams of the wounded mingled with the thunder of the cannons.  Thompson was wounded in the thighs and one of his cannons was dismounted; the Correo seemed to have gotten the worst of it.  Only the smoky darkness prevented his ship from being boarded.

Since he couldn't find the Correo in the dark, Hurd decided to return to Velasco and resume the chase in the morning.  Thompson also decided to withdraw but was in hostile waters.  He would have to hope for a steady wind to fill his sails and propel the Correo to Matamoros.  By morning, he had made little headway; Velasco was still in sight and the San Felipe was being remanned and rearmed.  To make matters worse, she would be towed by the steamboat Laura and wouldn't need sails to reach her target.

To Thompson's utter horror, he watched the Laura and the freshly armed San Felipe slowly coming toward him.  Low on ammunition, manpower and wind, he decided to surrender.  Along with five of his men, he was placed in irons on his own ship.  The rest of his crew, including the marines, were sent ashore.  The Texans helped themselves to the Correo's small arms and army payroll.  Accompanied by the San Felipe, Hurd ran up an American flag on the captured vessel and set sail for New Orleans

Since Texas, a Mexican colony, didn't have an admiralty court, Captain Hurd sought justice in a United States admiralty court.  Upon arrival, he claimed that Thompson was committing piracy against the San Felipe, a U.S. registered vessel.  Thompson and his men were thrown into the county jail to await trial in a district court.   The Mexican Consulate protested that Thompson was a commissioned Mexican officer and couldn't be jailed for enforcing Mexican laws.  Thompson, however, didn't have his signed paper commission with him for proof.  

 

The trial became a sensation when New Orleans' most prominent attorneys represented the opposing parties.  District Attorney Henry Carleton, a former U.S. infantry lieutenant that fought in the Battle of New Orleans, represented the prosecution while future U.S. Senator and Ambassador to Spain, Pierre Soule, represented the defendant.  As accusations were hurled, tempers grew increasingly short and hilariously childish.  Like a scene out of a slapstick comedy, the opposing barristers began hurling their inkwells and law books at each other.  Angered by such a melee in a court of law, the presiding judge threw both Carleton and Soule in jail for six hours to cool off.  Closing arguments were insufferably long and impassioned.  Soule presented his final speech in his native French.

After eighteen hours, the jury deadlocked and Thompson was set free.  Nevertheless, the guy just couldn't catch a break; he was arrested again for debt based on charges from past creditors.  

In order to placate a very angry Mexico, federal officials were pressured by U.S. Secretary of State, John Forsyth, to enforce U.S. neutrality laws in a more even handed manner.  Ironically, the even handed manner led to the arrest of Captain Hurd himself for pirating a Mexican vessel.  Not surprisingly, he was promptly acquitted by a sympathetic jury.

The incident died down but not the outrage.  To say the least, Mexico felt humiliated over the incident.  "Would not the United States have protested with unexcelled indignation," wrote Mexican Secretary of War Jose Maria Tornel, "if the schooner Grumpus, or any other of their war vessels, had been captured by the Correo and brought at once with its entire crew into a Mexican port?" A month after the trial, the Mexican schooner Bravo fired into Velasco.  The opening shots of the Texas Revolution had begun.



On Opposite Paths

                                                                Chris Kyle

                                                  Eddie Ray Routh with his mother

The country was greatly saddened by the senseless shooting of Navy Seal sniper Kris Kyle and his friend Chad Littlefield.  Even more saddening is the shooter was a Marine veteran, Eddie Ray Routh.  All three were native Texans, all three served in the military.  One would become a celebrated hero, the other would struggle with the dark grasp of post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. 

Born in Odessa, Chris Kyle, like many Texas boys, owned a gun and learned to hunt at a young age.   A stint in professional rodeo ended when he shattered his arm after being thrown from a bucking horse.  Despite his damaged arm, Kyle joined the Navy Seals.  From there he trained and served as a sniper during Operation Iraqi Freedom. 

During the course of the war, Kyle perfected his marksmanship on Iraqi insurgents, racking up an incredible tally of 160 confirmed kills.  The deadliest sniper in U.S. history shot one insurgent at the astounding range of 2,100 yards.  His success led to a bounty of $80,000 being placed on his head and a newly bestowed moniker, "The Devil of Ramadi."

Kyle retired in 2009 after receiving 2 Silver Stars and 5 Bronze Stars.  Now living in Midlothian, just outside of Dallas, he started Craft International to help train military and law enforcement personnel.  Kyle also authored the bestseller, "American Sniper," a book that chronicled his service in the SEALs.  Despite his busy schedule, he found time to start a controversial program to assist veterans suffering from PTSD.  The program offered therapy through target shooting.  One of the veterans was a very disturbed fellow Texan named Eddie Ray Routh.

Unlike Kyle, Routh's postwar experience was a series of mental wards, jail cells and frantic 911 calls.  Recent pictures and records suggest a man at times devoid of feeling with a terrifying, explosive inner rage.  The rage would surface at a remote target range in Erath County.  On February 2, 2013, the bodies of Kyle and Littlefield were found at the Rough Creek Lodge shooting range; both had been shot with a semi-automatic handgun.  While driving Kyle's stolen pickup, Routh was pursued and arrested in Lancaster, Texas.  He is now in the Erath County Jail awaiting trial.

Kyle's funeral procession may have been the longest in U.S. history and certainly the longest in Texas history.  He left a wife and two children.  As befitting all Texas heroes, he was buried at the Texas State Cemetery in Austin.  His exploits  will be studied by military historians for decades to come.  Routh's exploits will be studied by prison psychiatrists and a public wondering why.

Devil Dog

                                                                 Lt. Jack Lummus

"Don't stop now, keep going!"

For members of Company E, 27th Marines, those words brought out every ounce of rage within; their lieutenant was down!  Studded with concrete pill boxes and hidden snipers, the Japanese line seemed impenetrable.  Nevertheless, the marines broke through, taking out enemy positions left and right until they reached their objective, the northern coast of Iwo Jima.  First Lieutenant Jack Lummus would not witness their victory, but his spirit sustained their drive.  

Born on October 22, 1915, Jack Lummus grew up during the Depression on a cotton farm in Ennis, Texas.  A tight family budget wouldn't allow him to graduate from Ennis High School; the costs of a graduation robe and senior portrait were too high.  He got his high school diploma instead from Texas Military College on a sports scholarship.  After receiving a full scholarship from Baylor, he excelled in both baseball and football, obtaining all Southwest Conference honors in both.

Before Jack became a teenager, the Japanese officer that would end his life was learning cavalry tactics at Fort Bliss in El Paso.    Tadamichi Kuribayashi was serving as a deputy military attaché in Washington D.C..  For two years, he traveled across the U.S. studying American industry and military science.  In 1931, he concluded his experiences in a letter to his wife.  "The United States is the last country in the world Japan should fight," he wrote.

Before he left Baylor, Lummus signed contracts to play football for the NFL's New York Giants and minor league baseball for the Wichita Falls Spudders of the West Texas-New Mexico League (this league included such colorful names as the Roswell Sunshiners, the Lubbock Hubbers, the Big Spring Barons,  the Amarillo Gold Sox, and my personal favorite, the Borger Gassers).  He only played in twenty six games with the Spudders before being called up for active duty by the U.S. Army Air Corps.  During flight training, his wing clipped a fence post while taxing down the runway, thus damaging the plane and flunking him out of flight school.  Apparently, they weren't too forgiving back then if you wrecked a plane during training.

 He next played tight end for the New York Giants at the whopping salary of $100 a month.  During the 1941 NFL Championship game, the Chicago Bears defeated the Giants 38 to 9.  It would be the last game of Lummus' pro career.  Shortly afterwards, he joined the Marine Corps Reserve; the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor two weeks earlier.

Lummus' athletic ability made him a natural fit for the Marine Corps.  He attended officers training school at Quantico, Virginia, played for the Marines' Devil Dogs baseball team,  and was a member of the elite special operations unit, the Marine Raiders (similar in concept to today's Navy Seals).  Upon graduation, he received a commission as a 2nd Lieutenant.  In February 1945, his unit landed on the volcanic shores of Iwo Jima.

Iwo Jima (Japanese for sulphur island) is part of the Volcanic Islands, 750 miles south of Tokyo. The "South Pacific" charm didn't exist here. There were no palm trees, no half clad hula dancers, and no Bali Hai.  The largely uninhabitable terrain resembled a lunar landscape with smelly sulphuric mists rising from the ground.  The soft, ash laden, volcanic soil made it extremely difficult to dig foxholes or drive vehicles on.  The landing beach would resemble a vast salvage yard because vehicles had no traction in the very fine soil.  Iwo Jima was only good for fertilizer, air strips, and graveyards.

For the U.S., Iwo Jima would provide an ideal base for B-29 heavy bombers.  Its close proximity to the Japanese mainland (about 3 hours flight time) would allow them to step up their bombing raids and provide them with the added luxury of fighter escorts.  In addition, it would deny the Japanese another fighter base to intercept U.S. bombers in route to  Japan and a forward post to warn of incoming enemy attack.

The Japanese knew Iwo Jima was a likely target and took every step possible to make it invulnerable.  After all, it was the first piece of sacred Japanese soil to be invaded.  Unlike the other Far East countries, Japan had never been invaded successfully by a foreign power.  General Kuribayashi, Iwo Jima's commandant, constructed an extensive network of underground tunnels to service every inch of the island.  Pill boxes and bunkers were cleverly placed to produce a lethal crossfire for advancing U.S. forces.  To preserve his manpower as long as possible, he forbade the use of suicidal  banzai charges, a staple of Japanese combat tactics.  The defensive strategy was simple: kill as many Americans as possible and delay the eventual invasion of the Japanese home islands.   Japan's dwindling navy and air force assured the defenders there would be no reinforcements.  You were there to fight and die. 

Aerial and naval bombardment did nothing to soften Iwo Jima for invasion.  The Japanese defenders waited until the shelling ceased and the marines came ashore.  When they started moving inland, the slaughter began.  From perfectly concealed positions, machine guns, artillery, and giant spigot mortars opened up with devastating effect.  One Lieutenant Colonel recalled, "You could've held up a cigarette and lit it on the stuff going by,  I knew immediately we were in for one hell of a time." You never saw a live Japanese soldier; they were too well dug in. It was like you were fighting the ground itself.   Gunfire was useless.  Flamethrowers, grenades, and extreme valor were the only effective weapons the marines had.

 The night brought its own horrors.  The Japanese would crawl out of their tunnels and attack the marines in their foxholes.  If you left your foxhole, there was the likely danger of being shot by your jittery buddies next door who mistook you for the enemy.  If things weren't bad enough, the Japanese would call out in English for medical corpsmen then shoot them when they approached.

Lummus survived the initial beach landings, witnessed Mt. Suribachi's fall, and helped secure the main airfields.  Kuribayashi slowly fell back to the rugged northern point of the 8 square mile island.  It was there he would make his last stand.  Supplies and ammunition were running out, but not their resolve.  Iwo Jima was the only battle where U.S. casualties outnumbered Japan's.  According to the ancient Samurai Code of Bushido, surrender was considered a  shameful act of cowardice; you either died in combat or committed suicide.  Only 216 of the 22,060 Japanese on Iwo Jima were captured.

                                                           Flag Raising on Mt. Suribachi

It was into this last desperate stronghold that Lt. Lummus led E company.  In succession, Lummus took out three pillboxes by firing into their apertures with his carbine then tossing in grenades.  The concussion from a Japanese grenade knocked him off his feet.  Undaunted, the advance continued while a second grenade tore a gaping wound in Lummus' shoulder.  Incredibly, he took out a foxhole before stepping on a land mine.  The blast tore off both his legs, leaving mere stumps to stand on.  Propped up by an elbow, the ash covered torso presented a ghastly sight only made agreeable by Lummus' stirring words of encouragement.  He was taken to a field hospital where he told Dr. Thomas Brown, "Well Doc, the New York Giants lost a mighty good end today."  Lt. Jack Lummus died on March 8, 1945 at the age of 29. He was awarded posthumously the Medal of Honor and reinterred at Myrtle Cemetery in Ennis. Appropriately, an intermediate school in Ennis was named Jack Lummus Intermediate School in his honor.

The body of General Kurybayashi was never found.

Check out these three fine movies on the Battle of Iwo Jima:

The classic "The Sands of Iwo Jima" starring John Wayne.

Clint Eastwood's two highly acclaimed films: "Flags of Our Fathers" for the American view and "Letters From Iwo Jima" for the Japanese view. 

To see what the Marines were up against during World War II, check out the great HBO mini-series "The Pacific."  Very gruesome, intense stuff.  Not for kids and the faint of heart.

For more details on the life of Jack Lummus and his family, take a look at the impressive website www.jacklummus.com.

The Shoe Shine Hero

Since 1883, the Fore River Shipyard in Quincy, Massachusetts launched naval ships into the open sea.  After a brief introduction of dignitaries followed by an impassioned speech, a champaign bottle was broken on the ship’s hull.  The vessel slipped stern first off her moorings and went crashing into the water.  Unlike previous launchings, this one was different.  For the first time, the U.S Navy was paying homage to an African American sailor by naming a warship after him.  The young sailor’s mother, Naunita Harmon Carroll, christened the new destroyer U.S.S. Harmon.  Like many who made the ultimate sacrifice during World War II, Texas native Leonard Roy Harmon made his with an unflinching sense of duty to his country; a country where discrimination was still practiced in the military.

Leonard Roy Harmon was born on January 21, 1917 to Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Harmon.  Leonard grew up in the small Southeast Texas town of Cuero.  Like many Texas boys, he loved to hunt and fish.  He also had his own horse named “Chicken.”  To earn money, young Harmon did yard work and shined shoes on the downtown streets.     
                                                                                             

                                                                                                 Leonard Roy Harmon

Few opportunities existed in the late 1930’s for small town, African American men.  Paying jobs were scarce due to the Great Depression and college tuition was out of reach.  For those seeking a way out, adventure and opportunity could be found in the military.   Harmon joined the Navy on June 10, 1939.  He served as a mess attendant, one of the very few positions available to African Americans on naval ships back then.  Not many honors and recognition came your way; you prepared food, served food, washed dishes, and maintained the ship’s galley.  You also served the officers by making their beds, cleaning their quarters, and like Harmon’s job in Cuero, shining their shoes.  For most enlisted personnel, mess hall or K.P. (Kitchen Police) duty was something you tried to avoid or were punished with for committing an infraction.  For Harmon, it was a full-time job.

Harmon’s ship was the heavy cruiser U.S.S. San Francisco.  While docked at Pearl Harbor, she miraculously avoided the bombs and torpedoes.  On October 31, 1942, she was dispatched to the South Pacific island of Guadalcanal, the beginning of the U.S. island hopping campaign against Japan.  The Japanese were building an airfield on the island and were not willing to give it up without a fight.  U.S. Marines secured the airfield and fended off a series of desperate Japanese counterattacks.  The U.S. Navy, however, received a painful lesson in Japanese naval tactics; they were driven away from the landing areas after the “Battle of Savo Island.”  For awhile, the Marines had to consume captured Japanese rations until supply ships could return.

The San Francisco was part of a naval task force of 5 cruisers and 8 destroyers commanded by Rear Admiral David Callaghan, a former naval aide to President Franklin Roosevelt. The task force was sent to protect the U.S. landing beaches and airfield on Guadalcanal.  To counter U.S. efforts, a Japanese task force of warships and troop ships was dispatched to shell the airfield and reinforce Japanese troops already on the island.  Japanese battleships were armed with high explosive shells designed to destroy U.S. planes on the airfield with massive bursts of shrapnel.  The attack was to commence during the late evening of November 13, 1942.  Equipped with huge searchlights, the Japanese Navy had mastered the art of naval warfare at night.  Unlike their U.S. adversaries, they drilled extensively at it.  

In one of the most confused naval battles in U.S. History, the Japanese task force of 2 battleships, 1 cruiser and 12 destroyers sailed head-on into the American naval force north of Guadalcanal.  Firing was at point blank range.  One U.S. Navy officer recalled, “It was like a barroom brawl after the lights had been shot out.”  The ships became so intermingled that U.S. ships sometimes fired on each other.  Admiral Callaghan became so confused he ordered, “Odd ships fire to starboard, even ships fire to port.”  The problem was none of the ships had received a numerical designation.  How do you know if you are an even number ship or an odd number ship, especially at night?

The San Francisco took a pounding from four Japanese warships. Admiral Callaghan and most of his staff were killed.  Shrapnel was flying everywhere because of the Japanese shells.  It was suicide to go out on deck.   As San Francisco’s wounded began piling up, Harmon assisted in carrying them across the deck to the infirmary or dressing station.   While assisting Pharmacist’s Mate Lynford Bondsteel, he spotted a shell heading toward them.  “Look out Doc!” he shouted while pushing Bondsteel through an open deck hatch to safety below.  Harmon followed, but he was too late.  Riddled with shrapnel, he later died from his wounds.  Harmon was buried at sea the following morning.

The battle lasted 40 minutes.   Afraid of being attacked by American planes at daylight and having expended most of their ammo to bombard the airfield, the Japanese withdrew.  Guadalcanal would eventually fall to U.S. forces.

Mrs. Carroll said, “Oh, I just know my son is dead,” when she first heard about the battle.  Official notice came a few weeks later along with a medal, the Navy Cross - the Navy’s highest decoration for valor.  Because of Harmon’s courage, U.S. Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox authorized the naming of a U.S. destroyer after Mess Attendant First Class Leonard Roy Harmon.  Harmon’s mother, stepfather and two sisters boarded a train for Quincy to dedicate the ship named after their Leonard Roy. 

The U.S.S. Harmon served out the war and participated in the invasion of Iwo Jima.  She was awarded three battle stars for service in the Pacific. 

T-Patch

On July 26, 1917, the first members of a storied U.S. infantry division disembarked at a Fort Worth train station.  Their destination was a patch of land cleared for a future army camp. Three miles west of the city, the new camp was christened Camp Bowie and was to be the new training center for 22,321 National Guardsmen from Texas and Oklahoma.  The training was to prepare them for World War I combat, which was mostly defensive warfare fought in open trenches with machine guns, poison gas, and massive artillery barrages.  The United States had joined the fray in April, 1917 and called for volunteers.  The 36th infantry division was the Texas answer to that call.

To facilitate the mobilization of troops, the U.S. federalized National Guard units throughout the country.  At Camp Bowie, the Guard units had their state designations dropped and were merged into two infantry brigades: the 71st and 72nd.  At the company level, the Guardsmen were grouped by their city or region of origin.  Prideful Oklahomans and Texans were distressed by the loss of their state designations and tried to have them restated, but to no avail.  This was to be a national struggle.

Inclement weather, shortages, and disease plagued Camp Bowie for the first several months.  A shortage of rifles and machine guns forced companies to share their weapons or use sticks until arm shipments arrived.  Before the arrival of blankets and overcoats, cold fronts or “blue northers” hit the camp in late September.  A mad scramble was on for wood or anything that burned safely in a tent stove.  As with any army camp, poor sanitation and bad weather brought disease.  Many members of the 36th grew up on rural farms where they avoided most childhood diseases and had little immunity built up as a result.  In December, a staggering 8,000 were hospitalized for measles, mumps and worst of all, the flu.  During the war, a severe Spanish flu epidemic broke out that killed thousands nationwide.  A two week quarantine was imposed on the camp.  The men were instructed to keep their tents well ventilated, avoid large gatherings, and not use the streets as open sewers.  One officer remarked, “It’s worse than fighting the Germans.”  Wooden floors installed in the tents, improved hospital plumbing, and additional doctors and nurses on call brought the epidemic under control.

Near Benbrook, a 10 mile series of trenches were constructed to simulate a World War I battlefield.  During short rotations, regiments were divided into aggressors and defenders.  Accompanied by flares and artillery barrages they fought “The Battle of Benbrook.” The Camp Commandant, Major Edwin Greble, watched the action atop his horse, "Gray Bill."  Most of the casualties were from fists, rocks, and the occasional sling shot.  The most serious accident was when a trench mortar went off prematurely, killing ten enlisted men.

The twin vices of alcohol and prostitution were a nagging problem for General Greble.  Fort Worth had 178 saloons and an ever growing number of bootleggers.  In compliance with Greble’s wishes, Fort Worth closed down its red light districts and appointed female officers to keep women of loose virtue out of the dance halls.  To divert their attention, the YMCA provided guardsmen with movies and musical instruments.  Football, baseball, boxing and wrestling contests were held among the various units while the American Library Association provided books for the more studious.  Homesick farm boys were provided with gardens to grow food for the mess halls.  To show their gratitude for Fort Worth’s support, the 36th adopted the name “The Panthers” in honor of Fort Worth’s nickname, ”The Panther City;” a name derived from an article by a Fort Worth lawyer who commented, "the city was so drowsy he saw a panther asleep near the courthouse."

On July 13, 1918, the 36th set out by rail to New York and then by ship to France.  Their new camp in France was at Bar-sur-Aube where their training continued until September. In late September, the 71st and 72nd brigades set out for the front lines in the Aisne Valley region of France.  A lack of draft animals kept the 36th short of supplies, especially water.  The horrors of World War I greeted the 36th as they marched passed the remnants of the Hindenburg Line, a nightmarish landscape of shell craters, barbed wire, dead animals, and decomposed corpses feasted on by rats.

Germany was worn down by the ending months of 1918.  Manpower shortages and internal revolts on the home front pushed the German Army on its heels.  The arrival of the Americans would provide the tipping point.  Despite their hardships, Germans still had plenty of ammo, machine guns and an effective air force to strafe Allied infantry.

The 36th first served as a reserve for the French 4th Army and then was ordered into the trenches to relieve the U.S. 2nd Division.  Following an artillery barrage, an assault on the German line was planned for October 8.  The barrage, however, didn’t hit its target but hit well beyond the German trenches.  To make matters worse, a battalion of French tanks failed to provide support for the 36th’s advance.   Undaunted by the hail storm of machine gun bullets, the 71st brigade advanced a mile past the German lines, capturing 600 prisoners in the process.  Their own casualties numbered 1,227 from artillery fire and point blank machine gun fire.

On October 27, the 36th advanced on the German strong point at Foret Ferme, capturing the position and 197 prisoners.  In textbook fashion, the 36th had advanced a total of 13 miles against veteran German units.  Prior to their assault, members of Oklahoma’s Choctaw tribe were used to send messages over the radio.  Totally unfamiliar with the Choctaw dialect, the Germans couldn’t decipher  any radio transmissions coming out of the 36th’s command post.  They were totally in the dark as to the 36th’s plan of attack.

During October 28-29, the 36th was relieved for the rest of the war.  On November 11, 1918, a defeated Germany signed an armistice.  In compliance with new uniform requirements issued to the U.S. divisions, a new shoulder patch was adopted by the 36th.   The purpose of these patches was to help identify men of divisions who became intermixed during combat and bring about an "espirit de corps" among the divisions.  With respect toward their native states, the insignia consisted of a cobalt blue arrowhead, representing Oklahoma, and a khaki letter T, for Texas, superimposed over the arrowhead.

In April, 1919, members of the 36th began returning home to their families in Texas and Oklahoma.  Despite their state pride, Oklahoma and Texas veterans always reflected years later on their service and were more than honored to don the T-Patch.

Taking advantage of Camp Bowie’s utility hookups, developers turned the 2,186 acre camp into a residential area after the war.  The main road through the camp became Fort Worth’s brick-paved Camp Bowie Blvd.