The trench system they occupied were elaborate affairs, made by the engineers who had accompanied the invasion force. Butcher himself sat on a small folding chair in a dug out, the second line of trenches, writing. To his front, his remaining 350 troopers were in the front row of trenches, trading off the watch. The engineers had dug wells, so water was now in fresh supply. And his men needed it, Butcher knew. It was hot, almost a hundred degrees, and the ground was packed solid, every step bringing up clouds of dust, until every man was breathing it in, choking on it.
Butcher stood up, put his pencil in the small book on his desk, pulled on his gloves and slouch hat. He walked stiffly, looked out to the front. The second line of trenches was on slightly raised ground, Butchers quarters at the highest point, and so he could see Nuesvistas well, and his men going about their business. He looked through his binoculars, stared at the city, thought what in the hell are they doing in there? He wiped his forehead, the sweat soaking into his white-khaki gloves. So similar to Arizona…but not. Curious.
“Major!” A man had arrived, soaked in sweat, panting. “Sergeant Kelly told me to tell you, his recon men have spotted a large force moving towards us, and damn fast.” Butcher looked at him, looked back through the binoculars, could see the dust now, could hear Kelly’s men open fire.
“Sgt. Kelly is to withdraw back to the main lines, form in to our front. Move!” Butcher yelled it, looked to his front, could see Kelly’s recon men hold, stiffen. “Captain Moore!”
The man was in the front row of trenches, his six guns dug in at regular intervals. To their left was the 22nd, to their right was the 11th Infantry. He looked up, recognized Btucher’s voice. “Sir? They’re coming, I can hear them!”
“How much canister do you have?”
Butcher could see him pause, thinking, heard the reply, “Hell Sir, we’ve got plenty of it.”
Butcher nodded, good, damn good! “Alright, fire when they’re close, we want to punch holes here.” The alarm began to go off, the troopers who hadn’t heard the fight to the front were now alert, taking positions. Butcher looked back through the binoculars, could see the recon men mounted and retreating, angling for the only part in the trench line where they could bring in the horses, rear-echelon men would handle them. Butcher put them away, pulled out his revolver, scribbled up a request to Col. Beckett, the 11th commander, and ran to meet up with Kelly.
The man had dismounted, was sucking in air and dust and drinking water when Butcher arrived. “Sir!” He said, “They’re coming, whole damn lot of ‘em sir. Maybe 1,600, two of our battalions in size, for sure.”
“Get your men to the front line. You got a fast rider?”
“Yes sir. Whitback!” Kelly turned and yelled. Another man looked to him.
“He’d dead sir, took a shot retreating.”
Kelly swore, yelled another name, “Averdick!”
“Sir?” a tall thin man led his horse up, saluted.
“Take this, bring it to Colonel Beckett on our right, move now.” Butcher handed him the request, the plea for reinforcements, and Averdick was mounted and off in a cloud of dust. Butcher waved the recon men forward, arrived at the front line, turned “You men spread out, you see a hole in the line, take it. You’re the reserve.”
They were silent, and Butcher moved down the line, his troopers standing on the raised posts, the fighting positions. He came to one, knew it was Vater’s, joined him up top. Vater was stroking his beard, watching through a set of binoculars, turned. “Major, glad to have you hear on this fine day.” He was one of the Arizona men, was informal when it came to fighting.
Butcher moved up, crouched next to him. At 5 yard intervals were the firing positions, each one holding roughly eight men. Others had been carved in between him, and from here, the center of the line, at 15 yard intervals, were Moore’s guns, the crews gaunt and ready, licking their lips. Each position had been stocked with ammunition and extra canteens, plenty of water. The gun crews had spare buckets of the precious liquid.
Butcher waited could now see them, the Cuban rebels thin, their clothing in tatters. This is it, Butcher knew, their do or die attempt. They were close, 600 yards. “Gun crews, hold fire. Everyone else, fire at will!” He yelled it and the line erupted, a rattle of rifle fire, bursts and pops. Holes appeared in the Cuban line, men screaming, and the Cubans opened fire too, rifles erupting. Butcher could hear the pops and cracks, rounds glancing off the sand bags and wood of the trench wall. “Keep shooting! Gun crews! Tear them down!” He turned looked around, to his right. No sign of the infantry yet, just the Cubans moving closer, his cavalrymen firing and reloading, non-stop, the men sweating and swearing.
The first Hotchkiss gun opened fire, canister, and Butcher could hear that too, that damned strange hum as the balls tore through the men. The Cubans kept moving, the holes now massive, and they were running, couldn’t stop, and Butcher was amazed, couldn’t help but to think of Gettysburg, of Pickett’s charge. This is what the old man went through, incredible valor against technological devastation.
They were close enough now, and Butcher stood, pointed the revolver, began to shoot, centered his aim on one man’s chest and fired, blew him to the ground. His cavalrymen were now taking causalities, the recon men patching up the line, but it wouldn’t be enough, the wounded knew it, pushed their way back into the line. Damnit! Where in the hell is Beckett and the damned infantry? Butcher unloaded the pistol firing it at the Cubans, now 25yards away, and he knew they’d reach the trench line, looked around him, knew what had to be done.
“Fix bayonets! Fix bayonets! Prepare to hold the line!” He took his hat off, waved it, shouted, Vater repeating it. He could see some men take the break, fix the knives, or drop the carbines and pull out sabers, just as the Cubans reached them. A man scrambled up the front of their post, and Butcher shot him in the face, knocked him off, shot another. The air erupted, a cacophony of screams and shouts and grunts, the big guns still firing, the crews defending their guns.
“Major! Major Butcher!” a voice behind him screamed and he turned, moved away from the wall, could see the emblem on the man’s hat. Butcher blinked, looked harder. Infantry.
“Yes?” He had to shout to be heard.
“Sir! Captain Lejeune, sir! Beg to report, I’ve got 400 infantry men from the 12th battalion moving up to your lines, sir! Colonel Beckett apologizes for not being able to send anything himself, hopes this’ll do. My men have fixed bayonets and are moving forward as we speak!”
the man had pulled out his own pistol, began to fire, and now Butcher could see them, long lines of khaki and blue moving up, rifles flashing, the bayonets gleaming, and now the yell, the charge, and they surged forward, over the top. The Cubans wavered, began to move back, ran, and Butcher could see the opportunity, knew this was it, turned to Lejeune, yelled, “Keep moving, we’re taking this damned town today!”
Lejeune nodded, waved his men forward, rejoined them as they formed a line and began to march forward, bayonets extended, and Butcher ordered his own men over the top, to fall in behind the infantry, these saviors in khaki and blue. Today, he thought. Nuesvistas falls today.
great to see AoI in print 
