The Division Hospital was so harassed that it was necessary to order four Troops of the 9th U.S.  Cavalry there for guard.  While en route to the hospital on the morning of July 2 with wounded, I saw a squad of the 2nd U.S.  Cavalry after one of these annoying angels, not 20 feet from the road.  On arrival at the hospital I was told by a comrade that several had been knocked from their stage of action.  On July 1, our Color-Sergeant was shot from a tree after our line had passed beneath the tree where he was located.  July 3, three more fell in response to a volley through tree tops, and on July 14, while waiting the hand to reach the hour for the bombardment of the city, one of the scoundrels deliberately ascended a tree in plain view of, and within two hundred yards of, our line.  It was a good thing that the white flag for surrender appeared before the hour to commence firing, otherwise Spain would have had at least one less to haggle with on account of back pay.

To locate a sharpshooter using smokeless powder among the dense tropical growth may be compared with “looking for a needle in a haystack.”

The killed and wounded in battle present a scene well calculated to move the most callous.  Men shot and lacerated in every conceivable manner; some are expressionless; some just as they appeared in life; while others are pinched and drawn and otherwise distorted, portraying agony in her most distressful state.  Of the wounded, in their anguish, some are perfectly quiet; others are heard praying; some are calling for their mothers, while others are giving out patriotic utterances, urging their comrades on to victory, or bidding them farewell as they pass on to the front.  July 1, in passing a wounded comrade, he told me that he could whip the cowardly Spaniard who shot him, in a fair fist fight.

During the first day’s battle many interesting sights were witnessed.  The new calibre 30 Gatling guns were in action.  These cruel machines were peppering away several hundred shots each per minute and sweeping their front from right to left, cutting down shrubbery and Spaniards like grain before the reaper.  I observed the excellent service of the Hotchkiss Mountain gun; they certainly do their work to perfection and well did the Dons know it.  Many shots fired into the “blind ditches and blockhouses” of the enemy caused them to scatter like rats.  These guns use a percussion shell nearly two inches, and can be packed on mules.  They were designed for light service with cavalry on the frontier.  Four of these little beauties were manned by men of the Tenth Cavalry.  The Spanish made it so hot for the boys that they would have to roll the gun under cover to load, and then steal it back to fire.

I saw one of our light batteries of artillery go in position under fire at the foot of San Juan Hill.  The movement was swiftly and skillfully executed.  A most interesting feature of this was to see the Caissons, drawn by six magnificent horses, off for ammunition.  Three drivers to each outfit, one to each pair of horses; all plying the whip at every jump, would remind you of a Roman chariot race coming around on their last heat.