Pancho Villa Attacks Columbus, New Mexico
On the cold, moonless night of March 9, 1916, the small border town of Columbus, New Mexico, nestled in the vast expanse of the New Mexican desert, became the stage for a daring raid that would reverberate through history. This was no ordinary border skirmish; it was an audacious incursion led by the legendary Mexican revolutionary, Pancho Villa, and his Villistas. The attack on Columbus marked a pivotal moment, signifying the last organized Native American raid on U.S. soil, the final invasion by foreign troops, and, symbolically, the closing chapter of the Wild West era as the nation transitioned into a technologically advanced age.
The story of Pancho Villa‘s assault on Columbus is complex, often told from biased perspectives. To truly understand the event, one must consider the viewpoints from both sides of the border and both sides of the battle. Pancho Villa, a figure shrouded in myth and legend, was neither a pure villain nor an unblemished hero. He was a complex individual, a product of his tumultuous times, driven by a mix of revolutionary ideals, personal ambition, and a fierce sense of national pride. The events leading up to the raid were a culmination of political machinations, economic grievances, and simmering tensions between the United States and Mexico.
The town of Columbus itself was a fledgling settlement, established as a border crossing and a rail stop on the El Paso & Southwestern Railroad. Named after Christopher Columbus, the Italian explorer who "discovered" America, the town held the promise of prosperity and opportunity. Real estate advertisements touted Columbus as an ideal investment, urging prospective residents to "See Columbus before going elsewhere!" But "elsewhere" in the early 20th century was a world rapidly transforming. The Industrial Revolution had brought forth unprecedented technological advancements, cultural shifts, and societal changes. Albert Einstein was about to publish his theory of relativity, jazz music was captivating New Orleans, and the world was on the brink of World War I. Yet, in the remote borderlands of New Mexico and Arizona, the spirit of the Old West persisted.
Life in the Southwest was characterized by a unique subculture. People carried firearms, settled disputes personally, and held onto traditional values of hard work and self-reliance. The population was a diverse mix of resilient "whites" homesteading land, Mexican and Mexican-American immigrants seeking economic opportunities, and descendants of families who had lived in the region for centuries.
Columbus was a small town, with only a few hundred permanent residents and a 600-man army detachment, many of whom were often away on leave. On the fateful night of March 9th, the town was quiet, with only a few lights burning. The only sign of activity at the army camp was a small campfire around which a few sleepy sentries huddled.
As the cold desert night deepened, shadows began to stir in the brush south of the border. Rumors of impending trouble from Mexico had been circulating for weeks. Reports had surfaced of a large contingent of Villistas, the soldiers of Pancho Villa, camped just 35 miles away, fueled by resentment towards the U.S. government’s support of General Carranza, Villa’s rival in the Mexican Revolution. The U.S. had angered Villa by supplying arms to Carranza and transporting Carrancista troops on American railways, effectively choosing sides in the ongoing conflict.
Warnings had been given to the camp commander, Colonel Slocum, but he dismissed them, seemingly unconcerned. Some Latino families, sensing the impending danger, had even moved to other towns.
The attack commenced with a flurry of gunfire, marking the first invasion of U.S. territory since the War of 1812. At 4:11 A.M., a stray bullet struck the clock in the Columbus train station, forever fixing the time of the assault. The Villistas, clad in serapes and armed with an assortment of weapons, stormed into the town, their battle cries shattering the silence of the night.
The Mexican Revolution, a bloody and protracted conflict, had its roots in the struggle for land and liberty by the majority of Mexicans who were of indigenous descent. Pancho Villa, commanding an army composed largely of indigenous peoples, was viewed by many as a champion of the downtrodden and a symbol of resistance against foreign intervention and economic exploitation. His raid on Columbus was not a random act of violence but a calculated move, driven by a desire to strike back at the U.S. government for its support of Carranza and to acquire much-needed supplies for his revolutionary army.
The last skirmish with Indians was said to have been instigated by a small band of incorrigible Apaches, back in 1886. The Columbus raid was, in many ways, a Western-style affair. The Villistas, dressed in traditional attire and mounted on horseback, resembled the Native American warriors of the past.
Most of the attackers carried rifles, mostly Winchester Model 1894’s along with a lesser number of Model 1892’s, and even some obsolete 1873’s. Villa’s personal favorite was the Model 1895 with its distinctive box magazine.
The Mexican Revolution saw twice as many people die as in the American Civil War. Pancho Villa had a well-defined strategy, provoked by some harsh international realities. Among the papers found on a slain Villista after the attack was a letter to his revolutionary cohort and sometime ally in the South, Emiliano Zapata, clearly and intelligently articulating both his reasoning and his goals.
The raid on Columbus ignited a firestorm of outrage in the United States. President Woodrow Wilson authorized General John J. Pershing to lead a "punitive expedition" into Mexico to capture Villa, dead or alive. For months, Pershing’s army traversed the rugged terrain of the Sierra Madre, but Villa remained elusive.
The Anglo population of Columbus and the surrounding area was generally forgiving and tolerant of the Mexican and Mexican American communities after the raid, not only because of long-standing friendships, relationships, and intermarriage but also because the locals increasingly vented their umbrage at Colonel Slocum instead.
The Carranza government released a report claiming Villa’s intent was to force the intervention of the U.S. by invading Mexico, although it’s hard to imagine any real advantage to that. At around the same time, a Carrancista informant claimed Villa had decided ahead of time that their rallying cry would be “Death to Americans.”
Pancho Villa was never the worst of villains, nor was he anything approaching a “white knight.” He dealt savagely with his own people and eliminated his enemies at every opportunity.
To those Columbus residents who lived through the terrifying raid, Villa could have no credible motivation or redeeming qualities. Likewise for many Mexicans then and now Pancho Villa is a symbol of resistance and racial and cultural pride.
Villa’s raid signals the beginning of the unraveling of President Woodrow Wilson’s unrealistically pacifist policies. Pershing’s incursion in 1916 was the last time that American soldiers went into battle without helmets, and the first time that motorized vehicles were used as the main means of transport for troop insertion and evacuation, ordinance and resupply.
Pancho Villa escaped execution several times and was finally brought to bay not by force but through appeasement. He was driving with his friends and bodyguards on the afternoon of July 23rd when several assailants opened fire from their places of ambush.
The death of Pancho Villa was one of the closing chapters of the Western frontier, and in many ways, he was a true Western character: self-reliant, self-advised, and sure of himself.
The raid on Columbus stands as far more than a bold but minor invasion of our country’s hard-won borders, as more than just another example of our citizenry bravely passing the test. March 9, 1916, marks the true end of an era.